Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Author: Jimmy

  • Nintendo Switch 2 Caper

    Nintendo Switch 2 Caper

    My son and I are avid video game collectors, and we were excited about the release of Nintendo’s new console, the Switch 2. We tried earnestly when the initial pre-order website launched, only to get frozen out and miss our chance months ago. My son threw a gentle zinger at the time, letting me know that so and so’s dad had stayed up and snagged one. The dagger through any father’s heart, losing out to Mythical Dad X who obviously cares more about his kid.

    But June 5, 2025 was my chance for redemption.

    With the help of our new AI friends, we learned that several retailers would have midnight releases online, and a few would be selling the console in-store at 12:01 AM and again when stores opened. I’m extremely line averse. I’ll do just about anything to avoid waiting in a line and have lived a life designed around avoiding the WAIT. Eating at off hours, traveling through the night, researching how to dodge lines like it’s a game. My kids are lucky to have Magic Genie Pass, Express Lane Hotel Staying Dad who makes it his mission to squeeze the most out of our time with as little waiting as possible. Maybe it stems from some childhood trauma, etched into my DNA, a nightmare of a line where everything went wrong.

    Options were limited. Best Buy was opening at 12:01 AM and the backup was Target at 8:00 AM. Sadly, we’ve lost our Gamestops in the Danbury area, and the nearest one in Trumbull, inside a mall, was guaranteed chaos.

    At first, the plan was Target. Get there by 6:00 AM. But after watching a few YouTube videos, my son started to get anxious. The lines were already being reported by local media. With limited quantities per store and only a few retailers carrying the console, he wanted to pivot. He started nudging me to head out to Best Buy that night instead. I agreed, thinking maybe we could avoid the early morning chaos.

    While watching TV with my wife, I noticed my son stealthily creeping around, checking his phone, glancing at the clock. “Maybe we should go now,” he suggested. I had originally said 10:00 PM. Two hours seemed tolerable. But he worked me down. By 8:30 we were in the car headed to Danbury.

    Taking the highway instead of backroads, we could already see the line had wrapped around the front of Best Buy. We knew they had 40 consoles available, so we figured we’d drive around to the back to assess the situation. That’s when we saw the line stretching all the way around the corner. He wanted to wait. I couldn’t do it. Three and a half hours in line with no guarantee? No thanks.

    We pivoted to Target to see if a line had started, even though they weren’t selling until 8:00 AM. Nobody was there. We took our customary stroll through our favorite sections. The Nintendo Switch display was barren, cleared out in preparation for the launch.

    We got home by 9:30 and reported to Mom that the first attempt was a bust. I wasn’t thrilled about waking up even earlier to wait in line again, and the debate started. “Please Dad, please!” My wife reminded me, “He’s a good kid.” She wasn’t wrong. How could I say no?

    Sitting there at 10:00 PM, I made a call. I’d try again at 12:01 AM online. My son was doubtful. He figured our best shot was showing up in person the next morning. Still, I logged into all the retailers: Costco, Walmart, Gamestop. Made sure my accounts were updated with payment info and mailing addresses. I knew sometimes sites upload inventory a bit early, so I kept refreshing just in case.

    My son went to bed around 11:00 PM, or so I thought. At 11:45 he rose like the living dead and wandered back in, just as I was getting my tabs organized. I gave him the phone with the Gamestop app while I took the computer.

    From 11:50 on, we were refreshing like maniacs. At 12:00, Walmart’s countdown timer hit zero. But the links were frozen. Nothing redirected. Just spinning wheels of death. As minutes passed, our hope was draining. How can we beat bots, resellers, and whoever else figured out an algorithm?

    By 12:16, we were ready to call it. My son, now even more dismayed, knew that if I stayed up past midnight, the odds of me waking up at 4:30 AM were basically zero.

    Then one last round of refreshing. Suddenly a third icon appeared on Walmart’s site, joining the two blank Switch listings. This one had an “Add” button.

    Mash. Mash. Mash. Click click click.

    Error. Out of stock.

    Refresh. “Add” again.

    Then, a new screen. We were in a queue. A little window popped up in the corner saying we’d be notified and could view or dismiss.

    We waited. Low expectations. Probably a glitch.

    And then, Eureka. A 9-minute countdown popped up. We were in. The purchase screen loaded.

    I clicked “Add to Cart.” Nothing happened. Tried again. Still nothing.

    Then I noticed it was prompting for the CVV code.

    “Get the light!” I yelled, as my son turned on his phone flashlight.

    Code entered. One final click. Successssssssss!

  • NMS Presents “Spring Concerts” 7th Grade

    NMS Presents “Spring Concerts” 7th Grade

    That exciting time of year had arrived, the 7th grade Spring Concert. My son was performing in the Chorus section. As always, there was the daily drama of deciding whether he even wanted to go. He had a baseball practice he would have much rather attended, but my wife stood firm and said, “School first.” I could not argue with that logic, though I still tried, if only to quote Tina Turner: “I don’t care who’s wrong or right, I don’t wanna fight no more.”

    The concert was held at the Newtown High School auditorium, which I appreciated because it has air conditioning and had probably been redone a few times since I went to school there. There is always a small rush of nostalgia walking into places you grew up in. High school hits especially hard. Those years when hormones fused with neurons and everything felt important. The layout of the entrance was mostly the same, and I was reminded of the old Indian mascot sit-in we all participated in; losing to eventually become the Nighthawks.

    Inside the auditorium, a folding table held stacks of yellow Spring Concert flyers. I grabbed one quickly. We found seats in the back for a fast getaway and took the aisle so I could stretch my legs. The room was cool and comfortable. Orchestra and band students were already on stage, instruments in hand. Our Chorus kids sat off to the side, waiting for their turn to rise and take the front risers.

    The number of pages in the program made me nervous. I had been told this was a 30-minute performance. My fears eased once I saw that the Chorus had only one page, split into a few short segments. One page that stood out to me, though, was titled “Concert Etiquette.” A list of reminders that we should stay seated and quiet, not clap or hum along, and refrain from whistling or cheering. It felt a bit patronizing, like that overeducated, condescending tone adults use when they forget they are speaking to other adults and not children.

    The show itself was great. I appreciated the music choices. They were fun, and maybe I am just a big kid, but I recognized every song. Oompa Loompa, Pirates of the Caribbean, A Million Dreams, and Revenge of the Sith. The kids did an admirable job. There were a few sharp strings and flat notes, but you could clearly recognize the melodies. The “One Bow Concerto” was particularly entertaining. There was some confusion about who was sharing the bow, but the first-chair violinist stood out as an inspiring pro.

    When the Chorus took the stage, all of us in the audience searched for our familiar face. It brought me back to my own school days. The whispered jokes, giggles, the occasional dropped instrument, a rogue cymbal crash from the wrong section, the class clown who had to get one last laugh before the night was over. The lights hit my son’s face just right. He looked like an angel in his white shirt and black pants.

    About forty-five minutes later, we were being thanked by the town’s Music Director. I still do not know her name or official title, but she is always passionately advocating for the arts, music, and theater. She reminds us about some study or another, explaining how kids who sing in Chorus are four times more likely to become cashiers at Big Y than baggers at Caraluzzi’s.

    On the ride home, we got the full behind-the-scenes recap. Who messed up, who was being funny, some random conversations. These little details, almost too small to hold onto, are the ones that stick.

    It was a nice Tuesday night. Nothing extraordinary. But as I looked over at my son, I realized these moments are the whole point. The music, the memories, the quiet lion’s pride. They are the soundtrack to a childhood we will someday miss. And I am glad we showed up and were present.

  • Diner Review: DinerLuxe – New Milford, CT

    Diner Review: DinerLuxe – New Milford, CT

    “I’m back, baby!” Frank Costanza yells as he returns to cooking in Seinfeld. That same triumphant energy hit me walking into DinerLuxe in New Milford, Connecticut. After being closed for quite some time, it’s finally reopened under its original management and owners. Think of it like the Enchanted Tiki Room in Florida, when Disney scrapped the “new management” gimmick and brought back the beloved classic. Some things are just better the way they were.

    DinerLuxe is what I’d call a “Designer Diner,” a place intentionally built to be a monument to the great American diner. Unlike most diners, which can be rehabbed buildings or converted train cars, this one was purpose-built to deliver that nostalgic East Coast diner experience. It was born to be what the sign reads outside: “An American Classic.”

    And what does that mean exactly? The diner defies all nods to history and convention in every way. The architecture is pure American teenager defiance to old-world structure, with loud vibrant colors, a mismatch of building materials, and the regal majesty of silver and chrome accents. It also means we want to eat whatever we want, whenever we want. Breakfast at dinner? Of course. That’s the whole point. We didn’t come to this country to be told what meal goes with what time of day. “We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.”

    From the moment we sat down, the vibe was right. Our server, Megan, was just a genuinely happy human being. Her energy made everything better. It made the black coffee sweeter, the syrup flow smoother, added an extra crisp to the bacon, and almost made my brown eyes blue. Special shoutout to the food runner too. She brought an added touch of professionalism and care that really elevated the experience.

    We were seated in a cozy booth. The cushion still had life in it, giving my backside just the right amount of support. I ordered the Farmer’s Omelet with home fries, rye toast, and a side of coleslaw. The coffee cups were small, which meant frequent refills, always delivered promptly with green-handled pots that seemed to appear exactly when you needed them.

    The plate for the omelet was perfectly sized. No separate plate for toast, no awkward overcrowding. You don’t always notice good design when it’s done right, but you definitely feel it. The ratio of home fries to omelet was spot on. I’m convinced they used the golden ratio or Fibonacci sequence to portion it all out. The omelet was perfectly cooked, with bacon bits that brought the ideal combination of salt, fat, and texture.  The coleslaw was another hit, with beautifully shredded cabbage and just the right amount of dressing, hitting that Goldilocks zone.

    The home fries had a beautiful griddle sear, crispy on the outside and tender inside. The rye toast had a rich golden brush of butter and was cooked just right, not dry or underdone. They didn’t have the usual suspects like Frank’s RedHot or Tabasco, but I appreciated the notch above with Cholula, both red and green varieties.

    I also took a bite of my wife’s bacon, egg, and cheese on a plain bagel with fries. It was excellent. Everything came together in harmony, each bite better than the last. My son’s chocolate chip banana pancakes were another standout. Honestly, it made me question my entire pancake history. How have I never had bananas in my pancakes before? What kind of messed up life have I been living?

    We’re already excited to go back and bring more people. We’re even talking about ordering dinner at dinner, so yes, we are officially living on the edge. New Yorkers take their diners seriously, and that point was hilariously underscored when we walked out and saw a black BMW SUV with a vanity plate that simply read “DINER.”

    Please go to DinerLuxe. It grows the economy. It saves lives. As my friend used to say about a girl he was infatuated with, it’s the complete package.

    Final Verdict: 9.25/10

  • Movie Review: Tarot

    Movie Review: Tarot

    Some nights, I scroll endlessly through all the streaming services, and by the time I finally land on something I might want to watch, I’m already half asleep. Lately, I’ve gone back to old reliable, Netflix. To their credit, they’ve been putting out a solid lineup of shows and movies worth watching. They also do a great job of curating genres, and their algorithm has officially gotten into my head. It knows me, and I try to be nice to the A.I. so they might keep us around when they take over.

    Tonight’s choice was Tarot. I’m not sure why I picked it. I’m not usually a fan of horror or jump scares. Maybe I thought it would be lighter because of the playful banter between the characters. Whatever the reason, I hit play.

    What made it special wasn’t the movie itself, it was the moment. My daughter, who’s been a homework machine since she started elementary school, kept poking her head out of her room to say hello. She’s doing so well, and I’m grateful, but sometimes I feel like I barely see her. On this not-so-stormy night, she asked me to draw a picture for her end-of-year project. So while I was sketching away, Tarot was playing in the background. My wife and I were sitting on the couch. She was there, which I appreciate, but was doing her usual social media scroll, part of her nightly wind-down routine.

    As my daughter waited for my amazing doodle, I think the beginning of the movie caught her attention. The characters were just a few years older than her, and she recognized Jacob Batalon from the Spider-Man movies, which helped hook her. We started watching together. My son would have joined us, but he was at a sleepover. My wife after awhile declared, “I’m going to bed”, as she departed down the hallway.

    The setup was classic horror. A group of friends rents an enormous, eerie house in upstate New York for a birthday. Of course these kids can somehow rent a small mansion, while my college friends and I had to pool funds just to drink Popov Vodka. Naturally, they run out of alcohol, and one of them says, “Pretty sure this place has booze locked up somewhere,” which leads to them exploring and eventually breaking into a locked basement. Security deposit is toast. And really, when has anything good ever come from a basement in a horror movie?

    Down there, they find all kinds of weird stuff, including a handmade deck of creepy-as-hell tarot cards tucked away in a custom wooden box. Naturally, someone in the group just happens to be a tarot expert, and they start doing readings. The order and content of each reading becomes important later as the story unfolds. The group makes it through the night without incident, but the real fun begins the next day when they head home and the death cards start coming to life.

    My daughter and I had fun trying to remember what each card said and how each person might die. We were talking throughout the film, making predictions and laughing at how into it we got. Each tarot card came to life in the form of a character that hunted down one of the friends. It was standard horror formula, but it was fun. The tone was silly in parts, which helped, and even though I liked the CGI, a few of the deaths were pretty graphic and made us both cringe.

    More than anything, I was just grateful for the time with her. I loved listening to what she thought was going to happen and watching us both cover our eyes as a character was sawed in half. As kids get older, it gets harder to find those shared moments. Their interests start to drift from yours, and you have to work harder to stay connected. She’s going to be a senior next year. College is right around the corner.

    The little girl I used to lie next to while watching all her shows has grown up. I’ve always believed that if you want to stay in your kids’ lives, you have to meet them in their world. They’re not going to come into yours.

    So I hold onto these moments. I try to find ways we can connect; movies, books, drawings, whatever it takes. Time is flying by, and nights like these remind me how special the little things are. We enjoyed the film. The critics shredded it, and maybe rightfully so, but like everything in life, including a simple horror flick, it’s not always about what you’re watching. It’s about who you’re watching it with.

  • Diner Review: The Blue Colony Diner – Newtown, CT

    Diner Review: The Blue Colony Diner – Newtown, CT

    Easy on, easy off.

    The Greek families who settled in Newtown, Connecticut weren’t content with just arriving in a new country. They wanted their own colony. A Blue Colony, to pay homage to their Grecian shores. When they were welcomed to the New World, they didn’t simply accept it. Maybe they got mad. Maybe they didn’t understand the language. Maybe they were just being stubborn. Either way, they said, “No problem. We make our own colony.” And so, the Blue Colony was born.

    Their relatives, settling in neighboring towns, followed suit by creating their own color-based colonies. The Red Colony still stands today, born out of friendly rivalry or maybe not-so-friendly fights between the families.

    They even created a crest for the Blue Colony: two majestic lions flanking a shield, proudly displaying the letters B and C. The message was clear. Don’t mess with our colony, Malaka!

    The diner has served us faithfully through the years. As kids, it was our Sunday morning ritual after church. I remember ordering from the kids’ menu; the Rocky Balboa Roast Beef with mashed potatoes, while my brother went with the Lion, a classic roast turkey dinner.

    In high school, the Blue Colony became our late-night landing zone. A place where inebriated or high teenagers scraped together loose change and dollar bills to split coffees and cheesy gravy fries. We would sit there trying to get our heads right before heading home, watching the cast of local characters filter in. Sometimes there would be a fight. Sometimes someone tried to run out on their bill. I earned my own badge of honor the night I got banned after rolling in with a rowdy crew who got into trouble. I didn’t even do anything, but I wore the ban like a badge.

    Fast forward to today, and this place still stands tall. A Newtown landmark since 1973, it is everything you would expect from a classic East Coast diner, full of charm and character.

    At the entrance, a massive display of oversized cookies, pastries, and desserts greets you. The diner is split into a right and left section. I always seem to end up on the left, the side we knew growing up. The right side is either newer or always felt darker. I can’t help but feel like Larry David, wondering if we are being deliberately pushed left. Is this the “ugly” section for undesirables?

    Our party of five was seated in one of the rounded corner booths on the left. Our server was a tall Greek man named Alex who did a great job. Diner staff can always be hit or miss. I feel most places have seasoned servers who carry a heavy life burden or maybe just the wear of so many years holding large plates. Most people are mirrored reflections of your own mood, so I always try to bring a fun, light energy.

    In diners, there are safe bets and there are total gambles. My friend once ordered spaghetti and meatballs at 1:30 in the morning—a clear gamble. He was ruthlessly mocked for it. I stuck with a classic: the Farmer’s Omelet, home fries, rye toast with butter, and a side of coleslaw. Everyone else had breakfast for dinner, except my sister-in-law and son, who went with the can’t-go-wrong turkey triple-decker with fries.

    I like my omelets slightly runny and my home fries with some char, but I never ask for it that way. I have been on a lucky streak lately and enjoy the surprise of seeing what shows up. The most impressive part? The speed. It felt like the cook in the back was racing a stopwatch to see how fast they could crank out five meals. The food arrived quickly and tasted exactly as it should; hearty, satisfying, and consistent with what has kept this place thriving for over 50 years.

    The coleslaw was reliably good, as it always is at a proper diner, each with its own variation. I had a spoonful of the seafood bisque, which came out like molten lava; flavorful, with mysterious but tasty chunks of seafood. I also appreciate that they serve a BIG cup of coffee, one that lasts the whole meal without needing a refill. And to finish, I snagged a few sips of my son’s black and white milkshake, ordered to calm his nerves after a tough baseball game. Everyone was happy and content with their food.

    Now, in midlife, I am glad they forgot about my ban from all those years ago. I can walk in with my head held high, check out the specials, sit among the early-bird diners, and get excited just like my mother used to about the sheer quantity of food at a great value. She always used to say, “I’m going to wrap this up and eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

    Thank you, Blue Colony, for settling these lands so many years ago and doing it your way.

    Final Verdict: 7.25/10

    W/Nostalgia Kicker 8/10

    Still one of the best around. Still doing it right.

  • Field of Dreams

    Field of Dreams

    Field of Dreams is one of those movies that leaves a lasting impression. I’ve seen it many times, and each viewing through the different epochs of my life, feels a little different. It’s an ode to a beloved game, but at its core, it’s really about a father and a son.

    I was never a big fan of baseball. The furthest I went in my younger years was T-ball or maybe Charlie Brown baseball. But the movie isn’t only about the sport. It’s about connection. About time lost. About youth and the wisdom that only comes from looking back. It’s about how pride can quietly wedge itself into the spaces between men, especially fathers and sons. It explores the classic “what if,” and reminds us that what truly makes life worth living is the love we share; our connections, our relationships, and especially that sacred bond between father and son.

    Our generation—Generation X—is denoted in mathematics as the unknown. But if there’s one thing we do seem to know, it’s the importance of being present in our children’s lives, especially in their sports. Our parents’ generation followed a more traditional arc, only to realize later that they wished they hadn’t spent so much time working. Through their passing and their experiences, we’ve begun to see through the shroud of that false reality.

    For my family and for my son that sport has always been baseball. America’s pastime.

    I know how precious this time is as a dad; the small window of adolescence when a father can still be both a hero and a friend. I can feel the life-sized hourglass pouring sand through my fingers. I get excited on game days, leaving work early, picking up my son,  and sharing that anticipatory car ride to the field. We talk about the game, what he’s working on, what he’s going to try. We talk about the effort he’s put in at practice, and always the psychology of hitting. Continously working on a routine so that thought doesn’t interrupt what repetition has already mastered.

    I drop him off and watch as he hustles toward the field. I take a breath and work hard to be in the moment; the warm spring air, the bright sun inching toward the crest of the tree line. Our games are held late in the working day, and most parents are there. We bring our folding vinyl chairs and line them up together along the baseline. No one congratulates themselves or talks about the “sacrifice” of being there, because we already know the heavy price of regret if we are absent.

    We watch our kids with heightened anticipation, that nitrous-like jolt of nerves as they step into the batter’s box or push off the pitching mound. My joy isn’t rooted in some longing to live vicariously through my son. It comes from being a proud, loving, and deeply content father, watching the most beautiful thing I’ve ever helped create simply living his life. The strength and rhythm of youth, the untarnished optimism, and a glorious, unknown future. I just want him to know how proud and loved he is, and for him to be able to step back and truly enjoy his moment.

    We sit quietly, offering our hopes and wishes to the baseball gods. Hoping for that “good hit”, that allows them to beat the throw to first. We know a bad at-bat will replay in their minds, and we just hope, deep down, that they can recognize the wisdom of not placing too much weight on any one moment. Smile. Breathe. See the ball. Hit the ball.

    Time is limited. And while the days can sometimes feel long, the years and life itself are incredibly short. I try never to rush the day or the moment. I take time to breathe in the air, to say my own quiet prayers of gratitude, and to give thanks for the chance to be part of something this beautiful.
    I remember the line in Field of Dreams, when the father turns to Kevin Costner’s character and asks, “Is this Heaven?”
    And in moments like these; watching my son, the sun setting behind the trees, a gentle spring breeze carrying a well hit ball through the air. I think to myself, it is.

  • Who is Chicken and Broccoli?

    Who is Chicken and Broccoli?

    Chicken and Broccoli is a playful nickname I use for my wife. It’s a moniker that conveys consistency, dependability, and reliability; a known quantity. It’s not haughty or pretentious.

    To be a great Chicken and Broccoli means being made of simple ingredients, prepared with love, tried and true. After a long week, it’s a dish you just want to sit on the couch with to relax and enjoy your favorite show. It’s something you can enjoy for a lifetime, without agita or complaint.

    We’ve been together for over 20 years now, and my wife has almost always ordered Chicken and Broccoli whenever we’ve had Chinese food. It’s become part of how I know her. When we were younger, I’d challenge her on it: “Don’t you want to try anything else? I can’t believe you just want the same thing!”

    But now, I get it. I appreciate the order. I appreciate knowing her, really knowing her and all the little things that make her unique. These small, steady preferences mark your soulmate from another as we stitch our own story on this cosmic quilt of life.

    Lately, I’ve been thinking more deeply: what else does it say about her?

    She doesn’t chase after fancy new dishes. She’s never soared with the Phoenix and Dragon. She’s not looking for the heat of the Sichuan region or going toe-to-toe with General Tso. She’s not dabbling with mung bean scrubs, and she’d like your Happy Family to keep it down. Even with the broccoli, she’s not mixing things up; no shrimp, no beef, no pork. Just chicken, thank you very much.

    As our friend Han says, “Thank you for the waitings!”

    Now, if your wife or girlfriend is Chinese menu curious, be warned: you might want to prepare for the other shoe to drop. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she might be cheating on you. Be warned that your spring roll may get swapped out for an egg roll. There’s a chance she’s wrapped up with triads or smoking opium in one of Newtown’s many hollowed-out dream factories full of stretch-pant mommies.

    But if your wife can stick with the same dish for a lifetime?

    That’s a great sign she can stick with you.

  • Restaurant Review: Mix Prime – Danbury, CT

    Restaurant Review: Mix Prime – Danbury, CT

    We celebrated a very special family birthday at Mix Prime in Danbury, Connecticut. For weeks, my son had been saying he was “dying to go to the Mix!”, a running joke in our house ever since my brother-in-law had been raving about the place and its 40-day dry-aged beef.

    The restaurant is divided into two sections. One is a bar area with booths and high tops, and the other feels like it was added later by knocking down a wall into an adjacent unit. Our table for twelve was tucked into the back corner of the restaurant with a window view of the grill master at work.

    The ambiance has a high-end steakhouse feel, with rich wood finishes throughout. I imagined Ron Burgundy walking in and commenting on the rich mahogany and many leather-bound books. Our waiter was a seasoned pro; friendly, playful, and clearly knowledgeable. He recited the day’s specials from memory without missing a beat.

    Since we were making a full night of it and had a large group, we ran the menu from start to finish: appetizers, entrees, cocktails, and coffee variations.

    The bread service was solid, freshly baked, though not warm and served with an olive tapenade in what we hoped was light olive oil. It didn’t quite look like extra virgin. I considered asking, but also didn’t want to find out I was dipping into a naughty seed oil. We requested butter and received small decorative balls of it, straight from the fridge and difficult to spread.

    For our appetizers, we started with the escargot, Caesar salad, French onion soup, and Prince Edward Island mussels. I was especially excited to see escargot on the menu, it’s a rare find around here. It arrived sizzling in a special dish, each piece nestled in its own well of garlic butter. The escargot was rich, buttery, and everything I had hoped for. The French onion soup was another standout, made with sweet Vidalia onions that gave the broth a mellow depth. I also had my eye on the roasted figs, but those will have to wait until next time.

    We ordered a variety of steaks: filet mignon, ribeye, and New York strip. I was hoping my wife would go for the prime rib, but she chose the filet mignon Oscar instead, which came topped with lobster meat, asparagus, and béarnaise sauce. The sides were just as varied: mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, Brussels sprouts, baked mac and cheese, and a steakhouse classic—creamed spinach, a house favorite.

    My wife and I are longtime steakhouse fans. We’ve visited many of the New York City staples and eventually decided that, for the price and consistency, Outback beat most of them. That was until LongHorn came along and raised the bar. That said, my 18-ounce dry-aged prime ribeye at Mix was cooked medium rare, came out sizzling with butter crackling on the plate, and was absolutely delicious. The quality of the cut was clearly superior, and the dry aging produced a noticeably more tender steak. Because of the thickness of the cut, I did need to season it with salt and pepper something I usually don’t have to do at LongHorn. Yes, it was about 60 percent more expensive than a LongHorn ribeye, but it was worth it. I’m not someone who enjoys paying more for gimmicks or pretension, and thankfully, that wasn’t the case here.

    My wife’s filet mignon was just okay in terms of flavor. We weren’t sure if the béarnaise sauce dulled the taste, but it definitely needed salt and pepper. It was ordered medium rare and came out rare in the center, which we actually prefer to it being overdone. We also sampled the New York strip, which was very good, but the ribeye was the clear winner.

    All of the sides ranged from good to excellent. My favorites were the creamed spinach, Brussels sprouts, and my baked potato; which was simple but elevated with all the right toppings. The restaurant offers three steak sauces: Cabernet, au poivre, and chimichurri. I tried the chimichurri, which was outstanding, slightly different than most in the best way, with a generous helping of scallions.

    For dessert, we brought our own birthday cake and pastries but did order coffees. The decaf cappuccinos were some of the best we’ve had in a while, less milk than usual, piping hot, and beautifully finished with a cinnamon dusting.

    The mood throughout the night was happy, relaxed, and celebratory. We weren’t the only birthday group there, and it’s clearly a go-to spot for special occasions. Another highlight was my brother’s deep songbird rendition of ‘Happy Birthday,’ complete with enthusiastic and slightly aggressive hand clapping. We’ll definitely be back for another round of steaks, and I can already hear my son: “I’m dying to go to the Mix!”

    Final Verdict: 8.45 out of 10