It's TeiTei Robata Bar. The small Japanese restaurant offers a 10-ounce cut of highly prized Kobe beef for $100.
Named for the Japanese city where the cattle are raised, Kobe beef is so finely marbled, so tender, that it is considered by many connoisseurs to be the best in the world. And it is priced accordingly. Kobe beef is of the highest grade, called wagyu (say wah-su).
Kobe beef cattle are the sumo wrestlers of the bovine world, pampered with daily sake massages and fed a diet that includes lots of beer. That's not to keep them happy, but to tenderize and fatten them for market.
The result is a steak that tastes like beef butter.
Kobe beef is sublime; so smooth, so mild and rich it almost melts in the mouth, like foie gras. But is has a slightly firmer texture, so pleasurable that you want to chew just a moment longer.
Chef Teiichi Sakurai cooks each side of the Kobe steak over hot coals just enough to mark it, then slices it thin and serves it with two soy-based sauces - teriyaki and garlic - for dipping. Chopsticks are all you need. No knives. Not even a fork, unless you want one.
As the aroma of caramelizing beef fat filled the restaurant, I was embarrassed to find myself salivating in anticipation. Mr. Sakurai plated the steak, then placed the platter on a serving tool similar to a pizza paddle and offered it across the bar.
A first, I just stared. What, I wondered, could make this relatively thin piece of beef with no visible fat - it looked like a shell steak- worth the $70 I would pay? (Price varies according to the size of the steak.)
With chopsticks I lifted the first strip to my mouth and took a small bite. The flavor spread like honey, lingering on my tongue, then coating my mouth. It was delicious. If fine wine can be compared to velvet, so can beef. And this was velvet.
I savored each morsel, taking even smaller bits to better experience the texture, the pure beef essence and to make it last longer. Only once or twice did I dip the meat in either sauce, not wanting to adulterate the experience.
Kobe beef eaten the Japanese way should be shared, tataki-style. Each member of our party of three could have easily eaten the whole 7-ounce steak, but passing and offering a precious slice was part of the experience. Greed was overcome by our mutual desire for group gastronomy (and our budget).
The Western steakhouse ethic - a 12-ounce cut of fine-grained muscle meat on every plate - seems excessive in the quiet, contemplative atmosphere of this tiny Japanese restaurant. It's such an unlikely place to find the most expensive steak in Dallas.
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