Welcome to Sammy’s Roumanian, the House of Cholesterol
My social life in seventh grade was pretty spectacular and I have about a dozen pieces of blue and white swag as proof of such – who doesn’t love a good inflatable guitar saying “David’s Bar Mitzvah rocked!” Disregarding the insane number of plastic fedoras and amount of PTSD I have from being forced to soberly slow dance, I personally think Bar Mitzvahs are somewhat wasted on 13-year-olds. Every Bar and Bat Mitzvah I have ever gone to has had so much food that I could easily leave with a month’s supply of sliders and chicken-fingers-on-a-stick in a duffel bag. That’s basically currency in NYC. Also who gives a 13-year-old $10,000 in cash? The mafia? Some exotic drug lord? If you gave me $10k during the fashion forward time of Paris Hilton’s rein, I would have burned it on swath of Juicy Couture jump suits in every shade. You know what a 28-year-old could use a few thousand bucks for? IDK, rent? These malleable teens with spongy egos see at the money being spent and relatives flying in from everywhere and suddenly they think they are important. Fast forward 15 years when you’re hurling your own struggling half corpse into an already completely full 6-train at 8:10am on a Monday morning and realize your cozy arrangement with a few complete strangers is the most intimacy you’ve had in a while. Why set anyone up for such a let down.
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^Clearly residually jealous as I’m Catholic and our religious benchmark celebrations aren’t studded by deserved opulence; for my first communion they dressed me as a child bride, I received a bunch of crucifixes and was finally allowed to eat paper flavored wafers. My best friend Dana’s Bar Mitzvah was Vegas themed – 13 year old Dana had never been to Vegas. Recently some tycoon worth $7 billion summoned Drake to perform at his daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. Recently, as a 28 year old woman, I cried from the nosebleeds of the Drake concert. My case and jealousy rests.
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In the Lower East Side of Manhattan in a basement that is lit like a unlicensed discount attorney’s office and decorated with newspaper clippings, faded business cards, and illogical snapshots, one can exit reality for three hours and enter a parallel universe, underground Bar Mitzvah that conveniently showcases some of the best steak in the city.
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Famous Sammy’s Romanian Steakhouse is an absolutely insane, loud and embracingly Jewish establishment, welcoming you with open arms, garlic-smeared skirt steak, stuffed cabbage, pitchers of golden chicken fat, an unhinged live DJ, and questionable amounts of Stoli. It has the bragging rights of being New York’s original bottle-service restaurant, as patrons have the option of ordering a giant bottles of Vodka encased in blocks of ice and can really take the wheel to their evening…like a Goosebumps choose-your-own-adventure novel with a lot of bad decisions and an inevitably lower Uber rating.
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A few weeks ago, a group of 9 of us decided to put our stomachs, livers and hearts to the test and relive our 13 year old pasts as present-day mature women.
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Located on a stretch of Chrystie Street that looks like it’s being readied for demolition, the restaurant is marked by a washed out nylon banner and a giant window decal of the image of a container of chicken fat.
Nothing says “welcome” like a 4ft tall maple syrup container of congealed fat.
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Sammy’s isn’t trying to make waves with an interior deserving of serious instagram fodder. From the low ceilings, to the church rec room table set up, my guess is that the brains behind Sammy’s aesthetic hope at least half of the customers won’t be sober enough to care.
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So we really got going at ~6:20pm – the inaugural bottle of Stoli was cracked and we were graced with the first course of the prifix menu – a spread consisting of two bowls of pickled items, an enormous helping of chopped liver, a randomly killer stuffed cabbage, and an unexciting pile of undressed lettuce.
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Latkes are pretty fantastic. They take the holy goodness of hash browns, amp up the oil and density, and turn handheld. Sammy’s were essentially latkes on steroids; as thick and dense as hockey pucks and sit in your stomach dutifully as such. Note: this didn’t stop me from eating three of them.
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So I didn’t even realize broiled salmon was on the prefixed menu and it was pretty stellar. It came at the same time as the steak (see right), which I was rightfully transfixed on, but the salmon definitely holds it own in tempering this meat tornado.
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Waiter: “I’m sorry for the small portions.”
The garlic rubbed Roumanian tenderloin is incredible. The waiter won’t ask how you want it cooked – I actually don’t think they care about your preferences – but it is cooked to a perfect medium rare, bursting with juice and flavor. Questionable how well I chewed this.
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The man behind the Casio piano, Dani Luv, is 56 years old and has been the resident DJ for 15 years, pumping out standard and pop songs riddled with obscenities and impromptu Yiddish lyrics. Example: he revamped “Hey Jude” into “Hey Jew,” with “Take a sad song and make it sadder.” He was offensive, brash and loud; if he’s still alive when/if the time comes, I may see if he’ll officiate my wedding.
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7:15pm
About the time I checked out for the night.
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Because this establishment is about general lawlessness and eventual anarchy, please give me a reason the Hora wouldn’t happen. This was then followed by a lot of the standard “90% shoulders/arms/head” dance moves.
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~before/after bottle #3 of Stoli/the 6th Frank Sinatra Song of the night…
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[Gray Area After this Point]
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Considering all of the above, we look pretty put together here. I can’t say that sentiment was preserved as we descended onto the Lower East Side like the plague. Hurricane Liz called it an early night and never made landfall, thank God.
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If you proceed, which I encourage, clear your calendar of responsibilities the following day and prepare to be horizontal on cushions, like the meat filled beached whale you will assuredly animorph into.