By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
So far, none of this expansion has compromised Bob's thick muscular core. The Plano venue maintains Bob's skill with meat. The only point of sub-grand performance that we found was with the 9-ounce prime filet mignon. It was a good steak, but it lacked the gushing provocative juicy richness Bob's has elevated to a religious experience. Plus, it was on the dry side, cooked though it was to a perfect medium hue.
But the prime rib eye remained true to form. The rosy-cored medium-rare steak was tender and slammed with lots of juicy flavor, a dripping carnivorous orgy of cardiovascular excess.
Surprisingly, even the lamb chops created floods of saliva. Six ribs were tethered by sweet, silky meat fibers that were tender and lush: no sinewy strings or gristly knots that can sometimes erupt in lesser bone-studded lamb.
The staple stud in a Bob's plate, the thing that forms a sort of culinary speed bump between the meat and the potatoes (indulge yourself with baked, smashed or skillet-fried in gravy), is the immense, thick glazed carrot that runs lengthwise on the plate. A writer at the Dallas Observer's sister paper in San Francisco, SF Weekly, dubbed the root plant an "absurd (not to mention phallic) trademark..." Despite what you might think, this wasn't a compliment. It's a mystery as to why this thick fleshy stalk keeps appearing on Bob's plates. The unappetizing nature of this long-running standard makes one wonder how many of them end up as Dumpster filler.
Then again, if the dangled carrot ain't broke...