Mancy’s Steakhouse, Toledo

(Originally written October, 2017)

I remember a few years back, when I first started exploring Toledo restaurants, my sisters invited my wife and I to a place on Alexis Road called Ahmed’s. Just like today, it was my dad’s birthday and we were celebrating. Ahmed’s was his favorite place; if it was your birthday, you could get a discount on your meal, equivalent to your age. 

“Get the New York strip,” they said. “Get the French onion soup,” they said. So I did. And it was good. 

Since then, I’ve noticed the French onion and steak combo in several places around Toledo. I had a French onion soup in Whitehouse, once, with cheese so thick it had to be cut with scissors. Here at Mancy’s, both items—the steak and soup—are some of Toledo’s best. But today, I went with the boneless ribeye. 

At one point, my wife and I, my sisters, their spouses, dad and his wife—16 of us in all—were enjoying a nice lunch. The wine was going down smoothly. Things were progressing along at a nice pace, conversation was light. But then, something snapped. With my step-mom. “Jo, I can’t believe you’re letting your son join the navy while Trump is president! He’s gona get us into a nuclear war! That must not phase you at all!” she asserted from across the bread bowl. 

I took a sip of wine. Then drained the glass. Then asked for another. 

“What about DACA!? What about DACA!?” One of my sisters demanded of me. Eyes were rolling, tempers were flaring. I was focused on the Blue Points. 

I’ve heard many times before about Blue Point oysters. A friend of mine who frequents Mancy’s Blue Water Grill on Dussel, suggests them to me at least once a month. “When you go to Blue Water, ask for table 72,” he says. “Best seats in the house. That way you can watch the game on the TV in the bar. Oh, and order the Blue Point oysters on the half shell!”

“Will do.” 

That day, the oysters didn’t disappoint. Served on ice, with lemon wedges and mignonette, the little mollusks took me back to sunny days in Myrtle Beach, lazing around seaside watering holes. 

“Anyone else want to try an oyster?” I asked. This was met with repugnant stares. One of my sisters said, “I’ll try one. I’ve never had them.” Comments chimed-in...

“Don’t do it!”

“That is sooooo gross!”

She took a bite. Her expression went blank. She quickly raised her napkin to her face and ejected it. 

The atmosphere is quaint, shadowed, and reserved within the stained glass and timbered walls of Mancy’s. It’s a beautiful place where you can appreciate a setting meant for finer dining rather than spending the time downing brewskis while watching the game. Unfortunately, these East-siders weren’t having any of it. The Buckeyes were playing somewhere, dammit, and my siblings were stuck in here, having a nice meal. Within a few minutes, they had an app downloaded to control the big TV at the back of the dining room. A moment later, 70 inches of flat screen blazed into the quiet dimness like someone had yanked open a shade on a bright day. Necks were craning-in from other sections of the restaurant. “Who the..?” “What the..?” “How in the..?”

The waitress was making her way back to our table. When she entered the room she was visibly stirred. She looked at the TV, looked at us, looked back at the screen. I almost spit-out my water. This whooping, clapping, howling, blue collar wolf pack had turned this otherwise classy establishment into the Regal Beagle. Mouth agape, the waitress put her hand on her chest, and walked out of the room backwards. I ate another Blue Point. 

While Ohio State was kicking butt on the field, I was focused on winning my own little wine-drinking contest, having ordered a whole bottle of Malbec. 

The steaks arrived and they looked rich and delectable. They were beautifully plated. Cutting in, I could see my steak was cooked exactly as I prefer, which for me at least, is not a common experience anymore. This choice ribeye was a thing of perfection—rich, crusted, supple, indulgently fatty. Mushrooms, onions, red wine and steak fries made the meal a major event. Everyone ate happily. Everyone loved their meal. No complaints. My wife was especially fond of her dish—a moist tenderloin served with a gourmet mushroom and wine reduction. Every item I tried was excellent. 

Reviews are more fun when the restaurant  sucks. Then you can think of metaphors that showcase how bad the food is, in creative ways. “The burger tasted “stench”—pungently over-seasoned, like it was recently used by someone as an antiperspirant, or to wipe-out the bottom of the spice cabinet.” Or, “The meat was something worse than gamy. It was like eating muskrat, stuffed with acorns, sprinkled with spoiled goat cheese.” 

But none of that was the case here. The service was excellent. All the staff was cordial and accommodating. No one even said a word about the television making everyone blind. I saw that as a touch of class. 

The wine, liquor, and cocktail selections seemed adequate enough to satisfy the most discriminating tastes. When we first arrived, as we waited near the hostess station, I perused a large, beautifully carved wooden cabinet that served as a case for choice spirits. I spied a bottle of Elmer T. Lee bourbon—something I had only tasted once before at a men’s clothier in Sylvania. It’s presence ensured that I would be back here soon. Next time, perhaps, without as much company.