Black Cow Chophouse Review - The Space Between the Steaks

In the past few weeks I’ve been reflecting on my journey with Bread & Butter after having celebrated a year of publications. And one thing that has struck me in particular about my relationship with restaurants is how much more I find myself impacted by the choices a restaurant makes around everything other than the food—the decor, the service, the drink program. Even a well-thought-out reservation system goes a long way towards my initial impression of what a restaurant is striving for.

The food has to be number one, and for me it always has been. But everything else occupies the space around it. These interstitial choices—the nearly invisible decisions that shape a meal—are often where restaurants distinguish themselves. Over the past year, I’ve become increasingly interested in learning how to spot them.

One such restaurant is Black Cow Chophouse, a highly touted local favorite in Charlottesville, VA. Owned and operated by Daniel Kaufman and Gregg Dionne on Main Street, Black Cow has been serving locally sourced steaks cooked over a wood grill hearth for the past few years. And while the selection of steaks was varied, adventurous, and most importantly, delicious, it’s in those interstitial spaces where Black Cow truly shined brightest.

I was in town on a lark to try a ham biscuit I had heard wondrous tales of (read the full review here; spoiler alert, it’s worth the trip alone). To round out the day I figured I should visit Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello where I was reminded constantly of that man’s prowess with a pen. Did you know that he wrote the Declaration of Independence—one of America’s most inspired, revelatory writings—when he was only 33 years old?

I myself turned 33 that very same week I visited Monticello. So that was not fun to think about.

After having my life up to that point so painfully framed in such a depressing manner, I decided I couldn’t just sit with that self-evident truth on a car ride home. I needed something in my stomach to distract me instead. So I did my internet sleuthing and found that Black Cow Chophouse is the very place for that.

I arrived about fifteen minutes before opening to secure a bar seat because there were no tables left. A good sign for sure. I’m glad I did because many, many people had the same idea.

In line I met a lovely couple from Lynchburg who were also going to be spending the evening at the bar. They’ve given me permission to refer to them by their real names: Lisa and Benny. They were wonderful company—in town to do some grocery shopping, which they told me they usually try to pair with an evening out at various Charlottesville restaurants (Black Cow among them).

Seated at the bar, I settled in and was greeted by the bar manager, Josh—a burly tattooed barkeep who quickly became my Sherpa on this journey for all things food and drink. I was in his hands, because I quickly ascertained he knew what was what around there. He was attentive and knowledgeable. He offered suggestions from the menu and drinks that would work well in the moment.

At one point I ordered an espresso martini and he offered to make it “Josh’s Way.” I’m not native to Charlottesville or familiar with its cultures. Maybe Josh’s Way is common parlance around those parts. I didn’t want to offend, but I did ask what that was. A coy smile, and a quick response: “It’s fun.”

So be it! An espresso martini Josh’s way, it was to be. And damn it if it wasn’t fun after all. The secret was that he substituted tequila for vodka. I’m not sure if I’d say we dug terribly deep into a bartender’s bag of tricks on that one, but I was already beginning to forget how small my stature is against our nation’s forefathers, so that was a plus.

I’ve become rather disenchanted with steakhouses. They have largely gone unchanged, but my tastes extend beyond simple meat and potatoes, and I’ve been scorched by past experiences at steakhouses that offer up mediocre experiences at premium prices. I’ve recently tried to be more discerning about the steakhouses I’ve chosen to visit. So I was wary about spending my one dinner in town on Charlottesville’s steakhouse of choice. There was, as it turns out, nothing to be worried about. The food was incredible. Every dish was a hit.

The calamari sat atop a green chile aioli with pickled onions and cucumbers. The crunchy, acidic hit of the pickled vegetables paired beautifully with the creamy aioli that packed just the tiniest breath of heat. It was a wonderful dish that I would have begged for more of if it wouldn’t have seemed so impolite.

I desecrated the Caesar salad with several cracks of black pepper. I always want enough pepper to send JC into a sneezing fit. And I want him to know it was me. Achoo, Brute?

The Bread & Butter verdict of the bread and butter was that it was solid. The bread was soft and fluffy, and reasonably warm. The butter could have used some salt and been kept out of the fridge a few minutes longer. This is probably the only part of the meal I thought needed some work.

At Black Cow the steak menu rotates with whatever the restaurant has been able to procure from local farms. They use a chalkboard across the restaurant. It updates in real time as the kitchen runs out of inventory. People like me who are visually impaired have to stand up and make our way over to the chalkboard.

But honestly, it dispels any lingering formalities: we’re not at a stuffy table-clothed steakhouse. This is a living, breathing space that at 5pm most nights comes to life. Wait staff hustles and, occasionally, bustles. The din of the dining room is loud and constant. It’s the type of place where a plate may smash and no one would really notice. It’s a good environment.

Josh, having already awakened the spirit of the night with his signature espresso martini, also helped resolve my paralysis over which steak to order. I was down to two choices: a prime ribeye from Louisa, VA or an Australian Wagyu bavette. I always err on the side of ribeye and I worry it’s too boring.

Josh swooped in with a dizzying list of pros and cons for the two options that felt natural and lived-in, but distant enough that I could make the choice either way without judgment.

I went bavette. An excellent choice, I’m told. Less fat content than a ribeye but a rich, unctuous bite that Josh could personally attest to. The waitress who ran my food out to me seemed to be in agreement. Her favorite option on the menu, she said. It wouldn’t be the last time she told me this. And in a manner neither rote nor rehearsed. It felt earned, like the guard had slipped and I’d cracked the code to her Black Cow order.

The steak was excellent. Exactly as described. I opted for no sauce or butter accompaniment. Something I initially regretted after the order was sent to the kitchen, but something I truly didn’t miss once I was tucked in. The steak was perfectly tender and flavorful without the crutch of a saucy support system. Though the garlic and onion confit that accompanied the dish was a banger. A small smear of it on each bite infused so much extra flavor into the dish. It was addictive.

The cook on the steak was a tad under medium rare. If they’re going to miss, I’d prefer it under anyway but we were well within my tolerance zone either way. And I certainly didn’t leave any evidence behind to the contrary. That steak disappeared almost immediately from my plate.

The lobster Mac and cheese was mackin’. A hearty amount of lobster claw meat dispersed through. It was rich and creamy with a nice amount of cheese pull. Lobster Mac has quickly become my go-to test of a steakhouse’s mettle. This one passed with flying colors. Also, Thomas Jefferson is like the Father of American Mac and Cheese, so it felt appropriate on this day. When in Rome do as the Romans do.

As the plates were cleared and the meal reached its denouement, I noticed Josh was being tasked by Benny of Lisa and Benny fame with an open-ended request: make a specialty cocktail that Benny would like. Minimum guidance, maximum pressure. I truly cannot think of anything that would put me more in a box than having to come up with something on the spot to impress a patron.

But boy oh boy, did Josh deliver. I could hear from my end of the bar that he asked a few clarifying questions and for Benny to reveal some nuggets of inspiration for Benny’s existing preferences, and then like the wind he was off!

He came back a few moments later to tell the story of the drink: The Fall of Man, a counter-revolutionary cocktail from New Orleans with bourbon, orange peels, and an herbal liqueur whose identity in this story eluded me from a few seats down the bar. I’m always floored by the talent that some people possess to have that holstered and the story in the chamber. So of course, the nosy Nancy that I am, seeing the positive reaction to the drink, and wanting to get in on the fun, I flagged Josh down and ordered one of my own.

This is what I mean by interstitial spaces. This restaurant had several opportunities to do the bare minimum for me and the rest of the bar patrons. But we were in good hands and the experience felt like a conversation carried through the service and the atmosphere, and as the sun set behind the Charlottesville hills, it became clear this establishment had built a temple for this community.

And I had ordered a tiramisu (another favorite of the waitress running my food), but at this time the barriers had broken down and I’m sitting with Lisa and we’re having a lovely chat about the places we’ve been to and the things that make a restaurant great. She’s ordered an espresso martini Josh’s way. She seems to like it well enough. She’s a good sport about it, if not. And at some point I realize I’ve become less interested in the plate of tiramisu I’ve hardly touched, and I’m deeply entrenched in this communal experience instead.

Benny generously offers to buy me a glass of Grand Marnier. I’ve still got a bit of time left to wander around Main Street, so I accept. And it’s strong, but I liked it. I hope they had an easy drive home. They were good people.

I pack up my things and leave this restaurant happy that I made the trip to Charlottesville. On the drive home I reflect on my day and the sadness I felt on the hilltop at Monticello, and how that now felt a distant memory. Even though I haven’t written my Declaration of Independence yet, I still have time. And maybe one day I will. But this is enough for me now.

Final note for Lisa: the Black Cow bathroom is as clean as can be. And well-stocked. She assured me the women’s bathroom was up to snuff too. Thanks for the suggestion!