Myron's Steakhouse

Sophistication in New Braunfels

By Ron Bechtol
San Antonio Woman
Photography by Janet Rogers
July/August 2004

If ever there were a dean of the local steakhouse scene, it would be Bill Been. Veteran of Old San Francisco as well as the Cadillac Bar and most recently Swig, Been has witnessed the rise and fall of steak stocks in lockstep with the latest dietary craze. (Note: If you’ve been on another planet for the past couple of years, Atkins advocates consider steak the equivalent of the Holy Grail, and the price of beef has risen accordingly.)

Restauranteur Bill Been and his wife, JoAnna, have opened Myron's Steakhouse in a converted movie palace from the '20's. Seating is in panelled booths.

It is San Antonio’s loss and New Braunfel’s gain that the first enterprise to be entirely his own came to be opened there, but consider this an opportunity for a short escape from the activity—and the attitude—of the city. Myron’s asparagus spears may be as lance-like as the steakhouse norm, but the ambiance is somehow much more mellow.

Dining Companion’s slinky black dress with a silver rebozo worked, however (we’re still searching for the perfect strapless environment), in part because you inhabit your own world in the converted 1920s movie palace. Almost all the seating is in paneled booths, adding to a feeling of individual attention—and attention is what you’ll get. From the initial seating to the solicitudes of wine steward Darren Scoggins, the staff is unfailingly friendly and professional, and while we aren’t suggesting this isn’t a case a few miles to the west, the whole operation does seem somehow especially sincere.

Midwestern corn-fed Prime beef (right) is the star of the menu at Myron's Steakhouse, but you may also choose lamb (left), chicken or several kinds of seafood.

Steaks are steaks, of course—or are they? All of Myron’s material is sources out of Chicago, and it’s Prime in every sense of the word. On a previous outing, DC and I had swooned over a bone-in cowboy ribeye—unrepentant fat marbling and all, and had enjoyed most of a mixed grill (only the pork seemed to be fighting for flavor). This time, we determined to step out of big meat’s mainstream, at least for the entrees; the appetizers tend to feature seafood anyway, creating wine selection challenges, but making for a much more balanced experience.

You are almost safe thinking of the seared tuna appetizer as a steak; certainly it’s treated that way—with the exception of Asian accompaniments such as wasabi paste and pickled ginger. But feeling nostalgic for less sophisticated times (maybe it was the setting), we landed instead on the shrimp remoulade and seafood-stuffed mushrooms—both throwbacks to an era when Continental was the culinary buzzword and cocktail sauce hadn’t heard of salsa.

And yet there was nothing stodgily old-fashioned about the shrimp: served in a sprightly cocktail glass over a zingy, mustard-accented remoulade, the shrimp were perfect—a no-brainer with surprising sophistication. In true steakhouse fashion, the broiled mushrooms were presented without fanfare—just four copiously-crowned caps on a simple white plate—and I’m not sure what else I’d do. The caps would look silly on shredded lettuce, for example, so perhaps it’s best not to obsess and just move on to the taste. Which was accented by a little heat and a sprinkling of grated Parmesan (or Romano). As DC observed, the mushrooms weren’t overcooked either, making them a suitably sturdy base for the savory stuffing.

Harking back once again to comfortable Continental times, a wedge of iceberg is the automatic accompaniment to entrees, and the range of available dressings speaks with the same familiar voice. Such creatures of habit are we that blue cheese and thousand island were the choices once again—maybe simply because they’re good. (The creamy Gorgonzola should be worth a try, however.) And as crisp and fresh as the iceberg is, let’s face it: It’s really just an excuse to eat dressing. Admit it and move on.

This is the point at which the reviewer confesses to a lapse in ordering judgment. It’s one thing to expand horizons with seafood at a steakhouse, but knowing that the treatment is likely to be refreshingly straightforward (in most cases this is a virtue), halibut is perhaps not the best choice. According to friend and foodie Pat Mozersky, halibut “needs a bit of gussying up,” and truer words were never spoken. My freezer is currently full of the selfsame fish sent by a cousin in Alaska, and I keep searching for appropriate ways to take advantage of its, er, delicacy, while not altogether overwhelming the creature. As virtuous as the basic buttery bread crumbs topping Myron’s halibut may be, the end result is still neutral—which may be why we appreciated the side of steamed and sautéed spinach so much; it spoke simply of the real thing, and the real thing had a voice.

Let’s speak directly about mint jelly, while we’re at it; this is a throwback to those simpler times that this diner, at least, could do without—especially spooned straight from a jar. Accordingly, we requested it not even appear on the plate with our order of lamb chops—luscious, lovely, lip-smacking lamb chops, it should be said. This is not to suggest that some kind of mint sauce isn’t appropriate with lamb, but so good were these specimens that they needed nothing, in truth. Just those rocket-size asparagus spears, in fact—with a little nutty hollandaise to lift them into higher orbit.

A suggested bottle of Spy Valley Pinot Noir from New Zealand (an emerging force with this notoriously delicate red grape varietal) did its magic as well, bridging the culinary chasm between spicy shrimp remoulade and robust lamb with aplomb. In its own right, the wine, produced by a woman winemaker who has since moved on to another operation, was chameleon-like, moving from herbal accents to raspberry notes with ease and grace.

Fresh berries, bread pudding and chocolate cake are among the dessert choices.

The family-like quality of what appears to be a small-town steakhouse with unsuspected sophistication (or is it a big-city steakhouse with unanticipated modesty?) is emphasized by the desserts: They’re all made by Rosemary, the pastry chef, whose entire family seems to have been involved in the restaurant at one time or another. (Out salads had been assembled by one of her sons, if I remember correctly.) Rosemary even does the normally New York-named cheesecake, and she does it to perfection. Feeling a little more down-home this time, we elected to share her pecan pie and were not disappointed. This is not one of those Karo-kinds of pies with more matrix than nuts; it rather smacks of brown sugar, butter and lots of pecans. It would be gilding the lily to have your pie with a Myron’s coffee—loaded as it is with Bailey’s, Frangelico, Kahlua and whipped cream, but what the hey … this is a diverting dip into a kinder, gentler past; take advantage while you can.