By Chef Alexis Hernandez
Arthur’s
I grew up in Union City. Going out meant Cuban cafeterias on Bergenline Avenue. A Cuban sandwich, croquetas, maybe a cafecito. Water came in plastic cups with straws.
In those places, you pointed and moved on. No speeches. No second-guessing. You ate and then left.
When I was about twenty, home for the summer from college, I went out to dinner with a friend who wanted to go to a steakhouse in Hoboken called Arthur’s.
He had more restaurant experience than I did. His dad worked at a high-end restaurant in New York City, so ordering felt normal for him.
I did not realize until I sat down that I was nervous.
Arthur’s looked old to me back then. Dark, dated, almost theatrical. The kind of place where you notice the small things. Real glass water cups. Cloth napkins. A thin lemon wheel floating in the ice water.
That detail alone felt grown up.
The New York strip I didn’t understand
For me, steak meant palomilla. Thin, tenderized, cooked fast, the kind you put on a Cuban steak sandwich.
So when I ordered a New York strip, I did not actually know what I was ordering.
In my head, I thought it meant the steak was from New York.
I said it with confidence anyway.
When the strip came out, it was thick. Real thick. I had no idea that was what a New York strip looked like.
I also ordered a wedge salad.
Iceberg, blue cheese dressing, bacon, tomatoes, thick rounds of red onion.
They offered ranch. I did not know what ranch was back then. The server said the blue cheese was best, so I went with it.
That choice alone felt grown up, because a cheese that is blue should not be good.
I took the first bite carefully.
And it was good.
Smoky and creamy. Cold in a way most salads are not. The plate itself was almost frozen. I did not understand why at the time.
Now I do.
A cold plate keeps iceberg crisp. It keeps the dressing cold. It keeps the whole thing sharp while you eat it.
The wedge was crunchy and ice cold and weirdly perfect. The bacon gave it smoke. The tomatoes gave it brightness. The iceberg made everything taste cleaner.
I kept my reactions to myself. I did not want to look like I was out of my depth.
So I ate the wedge like I had been doing it forever.
The version I make now
Years later, I ate a salad at Maggiano’s in Chicago that pulled that memory back up again. Different salad. Same feeling. That was when I started making wedges myself.
When I had my restaurant, I would run one as a special sometimes.
A quarter wedge. Blue cheese dressing. Tomatoes. Bacon. Green onions.
Then the little things that make it taste like a restaurant salad without turning it into a project. A little grated garlic. A splash of white vinegar. Worcestershire for that quiet umami. Hot sauce for low heat in the background. Back then it was Tabasco. Now it is more likely sriracha or harissa, depending on my mood.
And if I can get gorgonzola, that is what I use.
Regular blue cheese is fine.
Gorgonzola is better.
I also buy the cheese the way I buy most things that matter. Not the pre-crumbled plastic tub, but the kind cut by hand and wrapped.
What stayed with me
I thought ordering the strip would make me feel grown.
It didn’t.
The wedge did more for me than the steak ever could. It was the first thing on that table that made the room feel less like a test.
After that, dinner got a lot less complicated.
