High Steaks
When people think of Kansas City steakhouses, the first names that come to mind are the famous ones — Plaza III, the Hereford House, the Savoy, the Golden Ox. After that? There are the fancy places, such as the Capital Grille, Ruth’s Chris, Morton’s and Benton’s. And then, maybe, the economy joints, such as the Ponderosa Steak Houses or the Heriford Grill, a 24-hour diner on Independence Avenue that still hauls out a sixteen-ounce T-bone for less than ten bucks.
The Range, however, wasn’t even a blip on my radar. It’s the only “upscale” restaurant at Harrah’s North Kansas City Casino and Hotel, and sure, I had seen the place a couple of times on my way to dump a load of tokens into the gullet of a slot machine or to try my hand, miserably, at a video poker machine. It never occurred to me, though, to look beyond the darkened bar area. And that was a big mistake: The Range, which is open only after 5 p.m., might be the only place in this big, bustling casino that you actually get a lot of bang for your buck. On all of my visits, I left feeling like a winner.
I never would have ventured into the place if I hadn’t run into an old acquaintance, Joan, who has the regal bearing and tart tongue of her namesake, Joan Crawford — and some caustic opinions on Kansas City restaurants.
“You haven’t been to The Range?” she asked me incredulously. “It’s fabulous! So much better than those arrogant à la carte steakhouses.”
Joan is the last person I could imagine hanging out at a casino — I tried to envision her perfectly manicured fingers dropping nickels into an I Dream of Jeannie machine or madly pumping the mechanical arm of a Slotto — so I took her advice seriously. The next thing I knew, I was wheeling my sedan off of Highway 210 and into the construction mess on the Chouteau Trafficway in front of the casino property. It’s The Range, all right: Just making a right-hand turn, I spun up enough dirt and gravel to re-create a scene from Stagecoach.
On that first visit, I took my friend Bob, who is casino-phobic; all those jangly, whirly slot machines give him the creeps. He was happy to be able to walk past the gambling floor and escape into the quiet restaurant. The Range is a faux-Southwestern sanctuary, its walls made of red “stone” and fake adobe, with dead twigs protruding here and there and a nice painted sunset mural floating over the salad bar.
Bob was thrilled that there was a salad bar, although I cast a wary eye in its direction. He’s a connoisseur of such things, but as far as I was concerned, any salad bar was a red flag: a lowbrow reminder of those 1970s-style “family” steakhouses, all boasting third-rate salad buffets crammed with soggy fruit cocktail, canned pudding, wilted iceberg lettuce and ersatz dressings.
“The dinners,” said our beaming young hostess as we settled into a cozy booth, “include your choice of our premier salad bar or a Caesar salad!”
I rolled my eyes, but Bob raced over to check it out and came back giddy. “It has wonderful things — kalamata olives, cloves of roasted garlic and artichoke hearts!”
Unfurling a cloth napkin into his lap, he perused the menu as if he were a high-stakes poker player. The Range deals out eight cuts of beef, from a six-ounce filet to a head-spinning double cut of prime rib. When I saw a server carry one of the latter to another table, it shocked my sensibilities: The steak was massive, glistening red and practically hanging off the china plate. There’s something completely barbaric about that much meat.
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Bob proclaimed that he was ordering the eighteen-ounce bone-in Kansas City strip and choosing a baked potato over the horseradish mashed potatoes. “I’m sick of flavored mashed potatoes,” he whined. “Garlic, sage, rosemary and thyme. I just want a potato that tastes like potato.”
I did order those mashed potatoes, however, along with a half roasted sugar- and chile-cured duck glazed with ancho chile sauce.
We loaded our bowls at the salad bar, which was positively glamorous by Midwestern standards. Returning to our table, we were met with a little loaf of warm honey-wheat bread, a knife savagely plunged into its center, and a plate of red corn chips piled around a little dish of a smoky-flavored roasted poblano tapenade. And on two visits, these unexpected treats proved to be my downfall. I took a gamble that I could eat only a slice of the fluffy bread slathered with sweet honey butter and dip just a few of the chips in the luxurious blend of poblano chiles, garlic and olive oil. By the time dinner arrived I was nearly full.
But the duck was tender and moist under a thick blanket of tangy, slightly sweet and peppery sauce, while the mashed potatoes offered only a pleasant hint of pungent horseradish. Bob’s perfectly grilled and juicy strip was thicker than Dostoyevsky’s The Gambler. We were amazed at our outrageous fortune in discovering this place, where the prices were fair, the portions were huge and chef James White’s skills were more than sleight of hand.
On another visit, I brought Barbara, a casino regular who once won ten grand on a slot spin. She had never eaten at Harrah’s, only gambled. (“And I do better at the Isle of Capri,” she said, shrugging.) She lit up a cigarette and gave The Range — and its clientele — the once-over.
“Nobody dresses up here,” she said, noting that the customers were mostly in shorts, sandals and jeans. “But the staff treats you like it’s Cafe Allegro.”
True enough, the service was consistently polished and even a bit formal, as servers silently whisked away plates while keeping glasses filled and ashtrays emptied. Barbara returned from the salad bar, having doused her greens with the house concoction du jour, a Baked Potato Dressing made with puréed potato, cheese, chives and sour cream. I had ordered three golden, crusty little crab cakes — each bigger than a $50 chip — sided by a fresh corn-and-pepper relish. Just as we were scrambling for the last bite, dinner arrived. “I know I can’t finish it,” Barb complained of her gigantic single cut of prime rib. “I’m not sure where to start it!”
I had ordered grilled pork chops and was enraptured when each thick, luscious hunk came topped with a slice of freshly grilled apple and was doused with a tart, delicately spiced apple-brandy glaze flecked with red, yellow and green pepper. The sweet sauce was countered by another mound of those horseradish mashed potatoes. It was all appropriately decadent.
I wanted to sample the chocolate-dipped cheesecake, but we were too stuffed (again I had indulged in bread and chips). So our server wrapped up most of Barb’s prime rib and one of my pork chops in a Styrofoam box, which Barb proceeded to carry around the casino as she played the nickel slots and video poker. She hoped the leftovers might bring her luck, but she didn’t make any big wins that night.
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Still, we’d hit the jackpot just having dinner at The Range.
