Like some alien ocean churned by the gravitational pull of twin moons, a man's life is dominated by two powerful and irresistible forces: Steak, and Ta-tas. Give in to both, at Prime 333
A superlative reiteration of the NY strip + strippers concept known to please hungry, horny men and conspicuously not-horny NYTimes food critics alike, Prime's a sultrily lit, marble-barred steakhouse opening inside Sapphire gentleman's club (nee Scores). The beefapalooza begins w/ Italian-inflected, Kansas-grown all-organic Wagyu (40oz porterhouse and rib eyes for two, t-bones, grilled filet mignon w/ green peppercorn & brandy sauce), plus sea-meats like South African lobster tails and the occasional boring pasta, all lovingly cheffed by a Robert's/Penthouse Exec vet who knows dinner's always better with a lil' T&A1. To get you in the mood, Prime's mixing from a still-in-development cocktail list, and pouring from 125 bottles of pan-everywhere vino, some as exotic as the names the dancers pretend to have
Prime's taking reservations now, and all diners get gratis admission to the club proper, where you'll be dominated by enormous twin moons, then thrown out on your rump for trying to land on one.
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