One of the nice things about writing this blurb is the knowledge that it will never end up on the walls of the establishment in question, because the folks who run Manny's don't give a hoot what chump-change suckers who read (or write) free newspapers care (or write) about. Because if you've got $75 a head (not counting drinks) to blow on steak and potatoes and asparagus, you're probably too busy parking your Expedition on the backs of the working class to read a rag like this. But damned if these people, with their tiny, too-close-together tables and mind-bending wine list, don't serve the most heartbreakingly perfect aged steaks money can buy. Like the salty tear of an angel in heaven. The bastards.