Let's cut to the chase: My $47 steak tasted like an over-marinated hunk of Spam soaked in soy sauce. My Yorkshire pudding was dry and unremarkable at best (and also creeped out my friend because he said it looked like a baby arm [SOMEONE is projecting!]). I was so disappointed as I am a steak fanatic who has embraced all sorts of steak ranging from the low-pro diner set-up to the high-end, formal-attire establishments in the most pretentious nooks and crannies of both coasts and beyond. Smith and Wollensky, however, failed miserably and has no place in my steak-consuming repertoire. I went to some sketchy hotel diner the next morning with the rest of my hungover constituents and my $13 steak and eggs dwarfed Smith and Wollensky in terms of edibility and taste. \n\nService-wise, the staff was top-notch and being that we were a rough and tumble bachelor party, the host graciously placed us in the VIP room in which we were consistently and diligently pampered. I can't justify dropping fifty bucks on a shit steak, but the service evened it out.\n\nThe triple-baked mac and cheese was a little too salty and overpowering. Come to think of it, everything was too salty. I had three greyhounds and I didn't feel the urge to shred my carcass any harder than if I'd had a glass of warm milk. \n\nA bad steak makes for a very unhappy Stephie. I came up big time in the casino later that night so financially speaking, I managed to break even with our hefty bill, but the psychological and emotional scars inflicted by that prime rib will forever remain in the distant recesses of my fragile constitution. A 500-pound animal died scared shitless and without warning for you, dudes. Show the poor beast a modicum of justice and at least serve him right.