New School/”Old School”

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My dismal impression of steak dinners formed several years before I attended business school. My time served as a high class indentured servant, also known as an investment banking analyst, was what soured them for me. Stuffy steak restaurants were the locations of choice for “closing dinners”- the ceremonial, self-congratulatory orgies of meat and fine wine between bankers and clients. As the analyst on a deal, I was not only responsible for organizing the closing dinner, but I was also obliged to attend.

Like in the movie Groundhog’s Day, the events of these dinners were always the same. From my seat in the middle of the table, I’d sit captive and watch slick-haired older men in expensive dark suits recount harrowing tales of how they narrowly escaped some of the world’s most treacherous bunkers and sand-traps with their handicaps barely intact. I’d pierce my hand with my appetizer fork underneath the table every time I heard a banker speak more proudly of his growing wine collection than he did about his growing children. I’d pierce my hand again when another banker would inevitably respond that his real dream was to own and manage a vineyard someday, as if these soulless cretins were still capable of having real dreams.

For us analysts, those closing dinners were widely considered one of the perks of the job. They were supposed to be ripe opportunities to interact socially both with senior members of our bank and with the clients. But by the end of any marathon transaction that typically saw me produce bushels of pointless financial analysis during countless all-nighters, create a full encyclopedia worth of pitch books and deal presentations, and ritualistically sacrifice my weekends jumping through more hoops for my superiors than a circus monkey, the last thing I wanted to do was spend even another moment with investment bankers. I needed a vacation by that point. Or a massage. Or at least a valium, but certainly not a tedious dinner in close quarters with the same people who’d demonstrated a sadist’s zeal for destroying a healthy portion of my early twenties.

Even when some of my fellow analysts and I got together for our own steak dinners, it was during these times that those among my friends who complained the loudest about how much they hated investment banking culture and the people they worked for would subconsciously emulate the pompous behavior of the very bankers they loathed. Eventually, after listening to a broken record of conversations about the importance of the right Hamptons summer shares or the sponsorship requirements for the private membership clubs of New York City each time we feasted on sizzling slabs of bloody meat, steak dinners become emblematic for me of the vapid culture of investment banking. By the end of my analyst program, I’d concluded that I was either not meant to be an investment banker, or I was not meant to go to steak dinners with investment bankers. Or probably both.

I had all but buried and forgotten those dinner memories until I received an email invite to a steak dinner at the beginning of my first year of business school. Years later, I was surprised to discover that the invite shot a quick shiver down my spine. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I assured myself as I scrolled down the list of the other invitees. Yes, the three or four names I recognized were also guys with backgrounds in finance, but this dinner couldn’t be like those old banker dinners. Only a month into school, we were all still obsessed with meeting new and different types of people so it was safe to assume that the dinner would be full of classmates from a variety of backgrounds. Plus, the fact that the restaurant was located in downtown Boston, far from Harvard Square where every other meet-and-greet pub crawl or dinner had thus far been held, meant that I got to see a new restaurant in a different part of town. I RSVP’d “yes” to the dinner and looked forward to creating new and improved steak dinner memories with some of my new classmates.

* * * * *

Elite Steak House, where our dinner was held, looked like a sanctuary for Boston’s blue-blooded crowd. Inside Elite Steak House, the dim, quiet ambiance, accented with rich mahogany paneling and dark leather seating, fostered a stoic members-only mood. Small lamps perch above broad scenic oil paintings with ornate gilded frames. As the stiff Maitre’D herded our group toward a large horseshoe shaped table in a small alcove facing the back of the restaurant, my overall feeling was that the décor was reminiscent of how I’d imagine Winston Churchill’s smoking den to look.

It wasn’t until after we were all collected around the table and taking our seats that I began to notice the similarities between most of my dinner companions. I looked around the table and saw only tall, clean, well manicured young men with strong jaw-lines, perfect teeth, and athletic frames. Almost all wore some type of light blue buttoned down oxford shirt- solid, striped or checked, tucked into either khakis or dark slacks. Those who didn’t wear blue shirts wore pink, complimented by fabric belts with embroidered spouting whales, lobsters, or lighthouses. Black Gucci loafers without socks were also common. By the looks of this group, they were collectively keeping J-Crew in business. And with my black fitted long-sleeved shirt hanging over my jeans, it was clear that I hadn’t gotten the dress code memo.

Appearance wasn’t the only way in which I differed from the group. I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that I was the only one at the table who’d gone to a historically Black college for undergrad. Based upon a few conversations, I gathered that the rest were trained at either Ivy League or Ivy League-like colleges and universities. “So much for the idea of a mixed group,” I thought to myself. “Looks like tonight, I’m the mix.”

But despite our obvious differences, I did discover something I had immediately in common with this crowd. Unfortunately, that something was the opposite of what I was hoping for when I RSVP’d. After more conversations, it appeared that most of us had taken the same professional path: investment banking analyst jobs followed by positions in private equity. Within ten minutes of sitting down, this dinner was already shaping up to be exactly what I’d feared: the reenactment of those soul-asphyxiating banker dinners. I’d even somehow found myself seated in my old position in the middle of the table. But this time, because of the horseshoe configuration, I was trapped. The wall was at my back and I was flanked by guys on either side. I checked my watch to gauge how much longer I had until the dinner would be over and then prepared myself for a long evening of dry, lock-jawed conversation by grabbing my appetizer fork under the table.

Our waiter walked around the table and took back everyone’s menus moments after they’d been handed out. Connor, a Princeton graduate and ex-private equity professional with star quarterback good looks, instructed our waiter that’s he’d already arranged everyone’s dinners as well as all of the appetizers and sides. Our choice was no longer what type of steak we wanted for our entrées, but how we each wanted our individual T-bone porterhouses cooked. As the waiter took our preparations, busboys followed behind him placing a tall glass of beer in front of each person. And once everyone had a beer staring at them, Clayton, who was seated at the opposite side from Conner, stood up and officially opened the evening’s festivities with a toast.

Clayton and I had met through a mutual friend during the summer before school started and I assumed I’d been invited because of him. He was an Amherst graduate, a former European league professional basketball player, a former private equity professional, and he had the confident stature and winning smile of a budding statesman. As he stood up tall to address the crowd, I could almost picture him wearing a navy blue suit and red tie over a crisp white shirt with a larger-than-life American flag hanging behind him. “Gentlemen, welcome. Thanks everyone for coming.” He opened, making eye contact around the room like a seasoned public speaker. “I’ll start by saying thanks to Connor for organizing tonight’s dinner and bringing us all together.”

At the acknowledgment, Connor nodded his head and smiled in our direction.

“We’re both really excited to meet and hang out with all of you all over the next two years at HBS. From what I’ve already seen, we’ve got a strong group of guys around us, and this leads me to my toast: (Beer glasses rise.) To us, and those just like us, because goddamnit, there aren’t many of us left!”

There aren’t many of us left? What the hell did that mean- there aren’t many of us left? Since when did Ivy-League finance jocks hit anyone’s endangered species list? “This night is going to be longer that I thought,” I thought to myself.

Guys around the table nodded their heads in approval and said “cheers” together. And just before I got my beer to my mouth for my first sip, Conner shouted “ONE! TWO!! THREE!!!” Then, he started it at the far end of the table. Then the next guy went. Then the next guy. One after the other, like falling dominos, each person guzzled down his beer within four mechanically precise movements. And judging by the pace and fluidity, these movements could only have been perfected through excessive military-style drilling or rampant fraternity-style boozing.

The drinker would start by drawing his beer to his mouth. Then, he would mechanically cock his head back further and further each time his elbow raised to funnel more beer down his throat. Finally, with no more beer left to guzzle, he slammed the empty glass triumphantly on the table. Then the next person would start. Everyone else watched in silence so that four soft but distinct rhythmic sounds punctuated our area: Gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG!

Then gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG!

Then gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG!

Then gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG!

From my seat in the middle of the horseshoe table, I watched wide-eyed, awestruck by the speed of what I could only describe as synchronized beer chugging. Seeing it come toward me filled me with the same wonderment I felt the first time I saw a stadium-wide wave racing my direction at a baseball game. For a split second, I wondered how everyone seemed to know what to do. But within moments, my turn had arrived.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d chugged a full beer. I’d never been much of a beer drinker preferring the taste and buzz of any mixed drink that started with vodka and ended in tonic. Even so, I attacked my glass, flooding my mouth full of beer like each drinker had done before me. But unlike everyone else’s drinking efficiency, I choked down my beer over many more gulps. My throat, in an uncooperative mood, collapsed reflexively every time I threatened capacity. I could hear the seconds ticking in my head as I took rapid in-and-out breaths through my flaring nostrils inside my glass to avoid the embarrassment of having to stop for air. Beer fizzled throughout my mouth, sizzling my gums and freezing my teeth. Finally, I finished by slamming my empty glass on the table while back-hand wiping across my mouth. The synchronized chug continued its way around the rest of the table while fizzing beer lingered in my throat.

“That was awesome,” somebody buzzed.

“It feels like forever since I did one of those,” added someone else.

I discovered that this synchronized chugging exercise was known as a “Waterfall”. As someone explained to me, the waterfall was apparently a drinking ritual which served the dual purpose of decreasing the time to intoxication and distinguishing the fastest, and therefore, superior drinkers within a group. Waterfalls were different from Boat-Races, Flip-Cup, or all other drinking competitions that revolved around team drinking speed because although some drinkers were faster than others, each person was really only competing against himself. As each person tried to drink faster than during his previous waterfall, the group would set a faster and faster mark. And get bombed together.

Connor’s arrangement with the busboys meant our glasses were replenished after every waterfall. So for the next fifteen minutes, before the appetizers arrived, waterfalls happened on the backs of every toast:

“To owning HBS like no one before us!” Then gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG! Gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG!

“To getting wasted, being wasted and staying wasted at HBS!” Then gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG! Gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG!

“To doing deals together over beers for many years to come!” Then gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG! Gulp-gulp-gulp, BANG!

The appetizers arrived and everyone ravaged the lobster and crab cakes, jumbo shrimp cocktail, prosciutto-wrapped melon balls, and fried calamari. With food finally in front of us, I figured (read: prayed) that the waterfalls were over, at least for the time being. But I was wrong. Waterfalls now occurred like spontaneous combustion, or, more accurately, spontaneous consumption. In the middle of a conversation, a drinker would, without warning, grab his beer and start chugging. The person he was talking to would instinctively follow, accepting that he had no other alternative. Then sensing this, the person on the other side of the second drinker stopped what he was doing to take his turn until a full blown waterfall worked its way all around the table.

I started to notice the different methods that people used to guzzle their beer during one of these spontaneous waterfalls. Boyd was a tall, lean, surfer-looking guy who’d played volleyball at Stanford, worked as a Silicon Valley VC before business school and had a penchant for encapsulating his profound emotions within two-word expressions such as “dude, outrageous!” or “dude, devastating!” When he drank, he held his glass like a squirrel holding an acorn- he cupped it with his hands on both sides as if he had no thumbs.

Carlos was a former engineer who’d played volleyball at MIT, had a close cut helmet of dark hair that resembled superman’s hairstyle without the hanging S shaped curl, and knew more about Swiss luxury watches than anyone I’ve ever met. When he drank, he held his glass from the top with one hand while hiding his other hand behind his back. With every gulp, he seemed to be tempting the slippery glass to escape from his grip before he’d finished his chug.

Carter was a tallish, round faced Dartmouth alum who’d previously worked in private equity, and who was the self-proclaimed (but as yet unsubstantiated) “Best-Asian-Rebounder-at-HBS”. With each turn he took in a Waterfall, he posed like Captain America when he drank; his free hand balled up in a fist on his hip. Also when he drank, his throat expanded turgid like a blow-frog. To me, this appeared to be the reason why he was nearly able to swallow his beer whole. Others however, were convinced he was lacking a gag reflex.

Up to that point in the night, I was surprised by the way our dinner was unfolding. Beer-guzzling waterfalls were nowhere near what I would have predicted when I first set foot inside this stodgy restaurant and laid eyes on the mosh-pit of stiffs in tidy blue oxford shirts. In fact, the evening almost had the feel of a white water rafting excursion, like when the calm river becomes active, chaotic and uncontrollable within a moment’s notice. And as I began to feel the chaotic thrill brought on by rapid, unpredictable beer guzzling, I realized that I was having much more fun than I’d expected. The back-slapping, shoulder-punching camaraderie that happens during a night spent boozing with any group of people can take the bite out of the harshest cynic, and once I’d loosened up a little, I had to admit to myself that I had totally misjudged this crowd. Blue shirts and slacks aside, this group was clearly in the mood to party, and I was now happy to be a part of the ride.

I was also impressed by the fact that things never felt out of control with our group. It is common, if not typical, for a large group of guys to become rowdy an obnoxious when put together with an endless amount of booze. Our group had struck a festive balance however, and other than the soggy table cloth and the dark blue, bib-sized beer stains that soaked the otherwise light-blue shirts, there was no real indication anyone had been affected by pounding seven beers in twenty minutes. Then Travis stood up to give a toast.

Travis was a former Air Force officer who’d already developed the nickname “Stiffler” due to his striking resemblance, both in his looks and behavior, to the movie character in American Pie. Standing up in front of the group, he chuckled along as some of the guys threw lighthearted barbs in his direction about his time served “flying a desk” in the Air Force since he hadn’t been a pilot. But when he was finished laughing, he took back control of his moment by raising his hand and commanding the crowd to “simmer down”. After the audience was his, he delivered his toast- “I just want to say to everyone that I’m looking forward to boozing with you guys for the next two years.” He said before pausing. Then flashing a wide, sparkling, Cheshire cat grin, he finished with- “But right now, this toast is to the HBS LAAAAAAADIIEEEEEEEES!!!” He bellowed out, pointing his chin to the ceiling like a wolf howling at the moon.

“LAAAAAAADIEEEEEEEES!!!” the seated wolf pack howled back at him at the tops of our lungs. Instantly, like what YEEHAW is to cowboys and what HOO-AH is to marines, LAAAADIEEEES became our battle cry. This one word emerged as the oral expression of our group’s collective social ethos; an expression that clearly disturbed other patrons in the restaurant and immediately brought the manager out to reprimand us for our noise and commotion.

About fifteen minutes and a few beers later, when the steaks finally arrived, my heavy buzz began descending into a dizzying drunken numbness. The alcohol was catching up with me, and I felt like my brain was sloshing around in an active washing machine filled with beer. Around the table, as our plates were laid down in front of each person, we attacked our steaks with the same carnal ferocity of lions ripping into a freshly slaughtered gazelle. The ambient hum of conversations around our table gave way to the sounds of nothing but forks and knives clicking and screeching from guys sawing hard through their meat into their plates. Within ten minutes of eating, Devon, a curly haired Wharton-educated former buyout professional broke the relative silence by suggesting a different eating technique.

“Hey, who needs an extra fork?” He asked. Then he picked up his porterhouse cave-man style with his bare hands and bit off a hunk of bloody meat. Auburn colored steak juice streaked down the sides of his mouth to the bottom of his chin. At that moment, the guys sitting to his right and left looked at him and then at each other with bemused faces, as if thinking- “That was absolutely idiotic…I wish I’d thought of that myself!!” Then, dropping their utensils, they lifted their steaks with bare paws and chomped into their juicy meat.

An hour into our dinner, the rest of the restaurant was fully crowded and in the busiest part of the evening. The view from our table showed servers and bus people weaving in and out of a thick maze of tables populated by people who looked like the bankers I’d worked for or the parents of these guys. And although the other patrons seemed fairly subdued, the chorus of conversations from the various tables filled the air over the restaurant with a loud buzzing sound.

When I worked as a bus person at a fancy restaurant, not unlike this one, while in high school, I noticed that during these busy periods, noise carried over the dining area like a tidal wave; it would slowly escalate to a peak before quickly crashing and attenuating into the walls. The loud buzz from conversations and frenetic restaurant staff usually muffled specific exchanges, but the quick, unpredictable drop in volume often caught one or two people completely by surprise as they were left shouting comments that were originally meant only for the ears of their party. During one exchange at our table in the middle of dinner, Travis, who was sitting at one leg of the horseshoe, shot an unprovoked salvo across to the other leg where Carter was sitting- “Carter, you chug beer like a girl with no gag reflex.”

Travis’ attack was drowned in the babbling current of other patrons’ conversations, and was only heard by the people at our table. But as the tide of sound subsided, at that perfect moment of unpredictable quiet calm, Carter’s biting retort- “I CHUG BEER LIKE YOUR MOM CHUGS COCK!” roared and echoed (COCK! Cock! cock!) in the empty air throughout the entire restaurant.

Then SCRRRATCH went the proverbial record-player. CLINK dropped silverware against porcelain plates. GASP went patrons in the restaurant, stunned by what they’d heard. UP stood hairs on the backs of necks. And finally, OUT came the manager to reprimand us again.

At that moment, as the rest of the patrons sat aghast at what they’d heard, I realized that as a group, we had just crossed a sacred boundary in the realm of male bonding. Although we hadn’t known each other very long, we’d had healthy competition, excessive boozing, an ode to women, trash talking and now “mama jokes”- every ingredient necessary for successful guy’s night out. And we hadn’t even finished our steaks.

We were now teetering dangerously close to being disgracefully discharged from Elite Steak House. Connor’s profuse apology to the manager and promise of our good behavior bought us a little more time. He even managed to recruit the busboys into our evening by including them in the round of Glenlivet, single malt scotch he ordered for everyone at our table.

With my mind and body now on drunken autopilot, I mistakenly took a full-mouthed, chug-sized gulp of my scotch. It felt like battery acid had just scorched its way down my throat and into my chest. I darted my eyes around the table looking for anything that would neutralize the burn as Devon, who was now laughing at me, decided this was the best time to ask me the question- “What do you think the probability is that we don’t get kicked out of here tonight?”

“That we don’t get kicked out of here??” I coughed, still clutching my throat. “I’d say at this point, the probability that we don’t get kicked out of here is like slim to none…and Slim took off a while ago…”

“Well then it won’t matter if I do this…” he said as he hand-scooped into the mashed potatoes. On the wall behind us hung an enormous oil painting of dogs frolicking though a grassy pasture. This broad painting had a thick, ornate, gold painted frame around it. Thanks to Devon’s handiwork, this painting now also had tiny mashed potato finger-painted dots on the noses of three of the dogs.

“The dogs gotta eat too.” He whispered.

I looked at his drunk, smiling face and then around the table to see if anyone else had seen what I just saw. No one had been looking. Everyone seemed to either have their heads down, focused on laying waste to their steaks, or were still distracted with laughter over the Travis/Carter exchange. I remembered at that moment a passing remark someone made to me before I got to Boston about how there was a long list of restaurants, clubs and event locations throughout the city that refused to host large groups of HBS students due to excessive drinking and feral, destructive behavior. Following that memory, I wondered where that official list was kept because we could undoubtedly add Elite Steak Restaurant after tonight.

I got Connor’s attention and eye-directed him to the painting. His eyes bulged before he shot up to get our bill, preempting our waitor’s return.

As I sat there momentarily looking at the group I still couldn’t believe it what had just happened. Heavy drinking was one thing, but as the night wore on, finally capping off with vandalism on that painting, I knew we had crossed a line. I wanted to do something but I couldn’t think of anything other than try to stand up and wipe off the painting which was not going to happen because I neither wanted to make the damage worse, nor did I want the risk of my attempt at cleaning to be misinterpreted as my being the vandal.

My next thought was to say something to everyone. My sense of morality was slowly knifing through my drunken haze like an astringent cutting through a clogged drain. “If something isn’t done, we’re going to fuck everything up for everyone else from our school!!” I thought to myself, all drunk and overly dramatic. And that was the last coherent thought that flashed through my head before I found myself standing and saying- “Everyone, I want your attention.”

The men looked up at me, their faces stuffed with steak. I steadied myself against the table and wondered what the hell I was trying to say. I looked across the eyes of the group, then at the crowded restaurant, and then back at the group, searching for a way to communicate that our collective behavior was not becoming of people affiliated with HBS. The words that finally poured out of me however, may have slightly missed the mark-

“I’ve heard you guys toooast (burp) all night to Harvard this and Harvard that…” I said, slurring my words and just loud enough for the people at our table to hear. Then, I strengthening my voice and focused on annunciating- “I’m glad you guys are so happy about your precious school…but I GO TO M-I-T AND I’M PROUD!”

Without missing a beat, the group started shouting “M-I-T! M-I-T! M-I-T!” banging their utensils on the table with each letter.

The other patrons at the restaurant- with their blue blazers with gold buttons; with their heads full of distinguished looking grey hair; with their women who wore M&M sized diamond necklaces or superball sized pearls; with all of their faces, tanned from sailing earlier that day and now turning red and fuming with anger- they all turned around and hissed at us from all parts of the restaurant. But the chanting only stopped when Connor returned, escorted by the manager, to collect payment and send us immediately on our way. The damage was a cool $235 per person and was mostly booze.

On the way out, some guys back-slapped amicably. Others tried to give high-fives to the busboys, completely oblivious to the furrowed brows of distain found on each one of their faces. Still others walked out while playfully forearm shoving each other like kids fighting over an airplane seat armrest. I even overheard one guy rave about the food and earnestly wonder aloud whether he should make a reservation right now for himself and his parents who would be visiting the following week.

On my way out, I glanced back over my shoulder for one last look at the smoldering rubble that once was our dining table. The disheveled table cloth was soaked in beer and stained with steak juice, creamed spinach, and mashed potatoes. Half chewed pieces of steak peeked up from the folds. Our alcove looked like it had recently been attacked by a wild pack of angry hyenas.

As I stood there, Connor swung his arm around my neck, putting me in a headlock before releasing his grip and resting over my shoulder.

“Jesus, look at this place. Can you believe this?” He said to me. We were standing shoulder to shoulder facing the area.

“Did you have a good time?” He asked without looking away from the table.

“I think so…” I replied. “I never thought a steak dinners could feel like a full contact sport.”

He laughed before saying “I just can’t believe how out of control this dinner ended up!”

What’s funny is, I really wanted to believe him. I too wanted to think that this dinner was some abnormal event where somehow things just sort of ran away from us. But as we stood there and watched the busboys begin clearing the table, and as I heard laughter coming from some remaining members of the group who were still exiting the front door, I knew this crazy, chaotic evening wouldn’t be our last. The major questions for myself were, was I really ready to accept and emulate this type of behavior for two years, and what would it do to me when I was all said and done? I mean, the boozing and destruction were already a lot to absorb, but what struck me the most was the way each and every one of us carelessly floated away, guilt-free, leaving others to clean up the mess we’d left behind us. Maybe this was good training for a life in corporate America’s executive suites after all.

As Connor and I walked outside to join the others, my thoughts were broken by the crisp night air and the electrical current of energy flowing all throughout the crowd of guys. “GREEETIIIINGS, LAAAAADIIEEEEEES!” someone from the center of the group yelled. That was our signal that it was now time to hit the bars and meet some women.

“LAAAADIIIIEEEEEES!!” We all shouted back at him in chorus. And with that, we were off.

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