Where o' where have all the cowboys gone?

You're supposed to be able to count on certain things. Not on all things, and not on other things. But definitely on certain things.

This year, not so much.

You're supposed to be able to count on the Yankees making it to the playoffs—but no, all that money and they still can't get the job done? On Spielberg and Indiana Jones—but, aliens? Really? You're going with that? On Starbucks—except, automated espresso machines that don't smell like coffee? Whose brilliant idea was that?

And seriously, you're supposed to be able to count on a warhorse steakhouse knowing how to cook you a steak. "Pittsburgh." "Black & blue." I didn't make these terms up. They should mean something to the kitchen. I mean, other than a city and a mouse.

I know most of you will be shocked, shocked!, to learn I had a five minute confab with the waiter regarding the temperature of the steak we ordered. Five minutes is a long time to discuss a steak. Nonetheless, after all that, and despite being at The Palm in WeHo, an establishment boasting 33 years continuous operations (don't ask me why), our steak arrived over-done. Back it went and came back, I kid you not, frozen in the middle. Honestly, what restaurant takes their meat straight from the icebox and puts it on the grill?

So, from me to you, skip The Palm and head over to Wolfgang's (not Puck) on Canon, or Boa on Ocean. Better yet, hop a plane to NYC...Keens anyone?