This city is called Indianoplace for a reason. I get a bad taste in my mouth every time I come here, and it’s not just from the vile pork tenderloin sandwich that Indianans call their signature dish with surprisingly little shame.
Daytime activities are limited to the Indiana State Museum (again, what possibly exists in Indiana that you’d actually pay to see?) and plotting ways to level NCAA headquarters for expanding its already perfect basketball tournament.
I’d prefer waterboarding to any form of motorsports, so the Indianapolis Speedway is out, and any city that puts a shopping mall downtown should be officially classified as a cultural disaster.
Here, there is no there there.
However, Indianapolis had one redeeming quality. Two years ago St. Elmo Steak House served me quite possibly the best steak of my life. The New York strip was slightly charred on the outside and medium in the middle, the perfect combination of zing and zang.
Besides seeing the Final Four and Butler’s legendary Hinkle Fieldhouse, the only aspect about Indianapolis I looked forward to last week was another St. Elmo steak. After dining there Thursday night, Indianapolis still only has one redeeming quality.
Hinkle Fieldhouse.
My steak was tremendously mediocre. About a half-dozen other sportswriters told me the same thing. If St. Elmo was an NCAA Tournament entry it would’ve been Kansas, a big name bounced out in the second round. I thought I’d see the college basketball press corps standing outside St. Elmo on Illinois Street chanting, “O-VER-RATED! O-VER-RATED!”
I am not a picky eater. If you can’t eat bugs, rats and Hooters bacon cheeseburgers you can’t be a traveling food columnist. But I am picky about steak. I have difficulty paying the larcenous prices steakhouses charge for something I can cook at home. It better be great.
This one was not.
Getting a reservation at St. Elmo during the Final Four is almost as difficult as a team reaching the Final Four. I called two weeks ahead of time and they found a table for one (Yes, one. Shut up.) for 8:45 p.m.
Keep in mind St. Elmo is the place to eat in Indianapolis. Colts quarterback Peyton Manning goes there after every home game. My waiter said Manning always graciously signed autographs in between bites until management gave him and his family a private room downstairs.
One wall is lined with autographed pictures of celebrities who’ve dined there. Pam Tillis. Al Kaline. Jack Johnson. Jim Lampley. Actor Judge Reinhold signed his, “My nostril hairs have just grown back. Gimme some more of that cocktail sauce.”
St. Elmo was built in 1902 and has been at the same downtown location ever since. It was named after the patron saint of sailors, which is certainly appropriate. As you obviously know, Indianapolis has one of the world’s most bustling sea ports.
The waiter talked me into buying St. Elmo’s signature shrimp cocktail. For the price of my average two-day food budget in Southeast Asia — $14.95 — I got five shrimp covered in horseradish- laced cocktail sauce that singed the backs of my eyeballs. I wanted to exhale but I thought I’d torch the far wall.
The waiter then tried selling me an aged-beef steak that he claimed had more flavor than my normal New York strip. He told me the price and didn’t smile when I asked if I could make monthly payments. At $42.95, a steak should come with a warranty.
I settled for my standby, the 14-ounce New York strip for $35.95. It didn’t have the same zing and I couldn’t taste the zang. It was a piece of meat. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Maybe they could put it in the Indiana State Museum. Label it as Indianapolis’ No. 1 draw. Put it next to a crumpled NCAA Tournament office bracket and a camshaft.
St. Elmo has had a nice 100-year run. Now I’ll tell it what many a college coach has told a struggling freshman: Work on it and come back next year.
I won’t.
John Henderson: 303-954-1299 or jhenderson@denverpost.com
If you go
St. Elmo Steak House, 127 S. Illinois St., 317-635-0636,
