I’ve eaten at d.k.’s with pleasure in the past. Having eaten at the chains, I made a special attempt to get there. I wish I’d skipped it, because it was a sad experience from the outset: a poorly mixed, weak cocktail, a waitstaff young enough to mount High School Musical, and a tiny portion of sashimi served on a beat-up wooden sushi tray.
The sides were sad. The creamed spinach seemed barely creamed, and the french fries had the perfectly uniform look and nonexistent texture that seemed to scream frozen.
There were two pleasant things: the steaks and the wine.
ARCHIVED: Read John Heckathorn's entire review in our "Like Beef?," March 2008 issue.