Impressive steakhouse at the InterContinental Doha in Qatar 1 Reviews
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I firmly believe if you’re going to kill an animal and eat its delectable flesh you should treat it with respect. And there’s no doubt Prime knows how to treat a cow: the place is lush. Banquet seating and nooks and crannies make for intimate dining, or you know, falling head first into a plate of gluttony. It’s a high class place to lose your dignity and get the meat sweats and they totally know that.
Their menu is fairly large, so in the absence of all shame (who are we kidding anymore?) we order three starters. My friend goes for the crab cake while I order the foie gras (if I’m going to disappoint my mother by eating meat I may as well go all the way). I quite enjoy the crab cake, but then I have a long-standing love affair with canned fish: my friend doesn’t think it tastes as fresh as it could. My foie gras on the other hand is like a log of pure, melty, slightly unethical delight (that smells faintly of duck). It’s a seriously huge chunk of foie gras. Even topped with their weirdly awesome caramel fig jam (seriously: liver and caramel. Who knew?), I just can’t get all the way to the end.
Which is probably a good thing as we also ordered the Caesar salad. Mostly because they make it table side and darn it, I want dinner and a show. It’s a little overdressed and sloppy, but tasty none the less. Here’s a secret: you can never actually have too much Caesar dressing. Oh I know, foodie snobs and dieticians will claim otherwise, but just stop. Creamy garlic goodness? Bring that stuff on and keep on pouring.
But, we’re not really here for salad, are we? After all, to quote Bart Simpson, you don’t win friends with salad. They’ve got several varieties of steak and my friend chooses the wagyu. I, however, am lured by the promise of my first ever piece of kobe beef. I must have you in my tummy, kobe. You will be mine, oh yes, you will be mine.
And . . . here’s where the whole ordering-at-Prime thing gets complicated. Each comes with a side so I indulge my mashed potato fetish and go for the truffle mash, while my friend tries the rosemary roast potatoes. Then we order the asparagus, just for kicks. Then we each get to choose a sauce—I go for the horseradish cream sauce (fear my lactose horseradish breathe) and my friend chooses the herbed butter.
When they come around with the tray of knives for us to choose I’m about ready to scream ‘stop making me think before I eat! Just feed me like the mindless patron I wish to be!’ But I calm down, have another roll (breadbasket equals awesome—it also comes with three kinds of butter), and have a little giggle over a knife recommendation. Will the one named the samurai and inspired by Japanese swords really cut my particular meat better than the one echoing British tradition? Dare I tell the waiter at home I’ve been known to cut my steak with a plastic butter knife (don’t judge me)?
We literally have to move the candles off the table to accommodate our meal for two. Between our steak plates, the three bowls of sides, the two sauces, the three kinds of mustard and the three kinds of salt they provide there’s not much room left.
And then we proceed into a food coma. This stuff is good! Double rainbow exclamation point smiley face good. The meat is tender and delicious and salted nicely, and both steaks are cooked exactly as we asked for them. My horseradish sauce is a creamy pool of butter awesome. More please. But I start to feel . . . overwhelmed. The truffle mash is salty and tangy. The steak is salty and tangy. The sauce is salty and tangy. Don’t get me started on the actual salt—three kinds remember?—they presented us with in case we felt anything needed, you know, a hit more. Even the asparagus is covered in buttery flavour, and the rosemary roast potatoes, though awesome at the top of the dish, once we reach the bottom are swimming in a pool of, yes, salty flavour. I can hear my arteries screaming and I’m sort of OK with it.
Here’s the thing, Prime: I want to love you, I really really do. But you’re just trying too hard. It’s like you’ve put on every piece of jewellery you own and sauntered to the Prom and then wondered why no one asked you to dance. People need a break sometimes, you know? Individually, each element was incredible: together, my tongue was just over whelmed and ended up in a metaphorical corner, rocking and weeping and begging the lambs to stop screaming. Some dishes get to be Gladys Knight but darn, it some have to be the Pips. Let something on my plate be the Pips. Just chill out, would you?
The Bill (for two)
1 x Crab cake QR85
1 x Foie gras QR95
1x Caesar salad QR60
1x Waygu steak QR250
1x Kobe steak QR180
1x Asparagus QR25
Total (including taxes) QR695
Time Out Doha,
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