Recently, I was craving a fine steak. I was willing to go a little out of my way to find the best. As in, back to 1957. To a perfectly preserved steak den, half a century and half a continent away in Winnipeg, where serious carnivores swore I’d find the best beef I’d ever had.

The destination was Rae and Jerry’s, an institution always mentioned in the hushed tones normally reserved for revealing the location of the Ark of the Covenant. In Winnipeg’s downtown, I hailed a cab and stated my destination: “Steak time, huh?” the driver said, giving me an approving nod. Already, this was a good sign.

As he hung a left at Portage and Main I studied the city’s iconic facades, wondering which building housed this carnivorous temple. The cab rolled on as the downtown core faded in the rear-view mirror. After 10 minutes or so I spotted a large sign announcing Prime Rib of Beef. Behind it was a low-slung, white-brick building adorned with a crisp navy awning, its pink and blue neon Rae and Jerry’s Steak House sign like elegant icing on a cake.
When John Rae and Jerry Hemsworth opened the joint in 1957, its now-off-the-beaten-path location was perfectly situated to serve the burgeoning population. It was located at the nexus of a Winnipeg sports holy trinity: Polo Park horse track (which closed just before the restaurant’s opening), Winnipeg Stadium (home of the Blue Bombers) and Winnipeg Arena (home of the Jets). Only the stadium survives, but Rae and Jerry’s remains a destination for locals and visitors craving a taste of the circa-Mad Men good life.

I see why as soon as I open the heavy doors to the place. I take in expanses of dark wood, dark lacquered wood and some even darker wood, all set in a sea of red plush carpet and topped with red leatherette banquettes and a deep brown, deeply funky multi-plane ceiling (which was the work of a young local architect, Douglas Gillmor, who went on to direct the architecture program at the University of Calgary). Every detail is so period-perfect I do a quick check of my PDA to make sure it’s still the 21st century. Hollywood director John Dahl, in Winnipeg to film a move a few years back, became something of a regular here. “It’s like a David Lynch set,” he reportedly said with admiration.

I’m led to my table by a waitress, vaguely reminiscent of Scooby-Doo’s Velma, who wears a red uniform with a name tag that says Diana. The current owner, the no-nonsense Steve Hrousalas (who bought the place from Rae and Jerry in 1975), makes no apologies for the waitresses’—none are men and they don’t go by the politically correct “servers” here—uniforms. “The girls love ’em,” he says, though he did away with coordinating aprons a few years back. (An in-house laundry, in the basement, keeps both staff and linens looking crisp.)

Diana passes me a menu on heavy bond paper, as august as the Magna Carta, that’s a marvel of retro simplicity: wine list on one flap, food on the other and an entire back page reserved for cocktails. I start at the back page. There are about 142 possibilities including such forgotten classics as the Harvey Wallbanger and the Planter’s Punch. I opt for—what else?—an Old Fashioned. It’s perfect. No small-batch rye, no organic cherry, no fussy sugar cube, just a classic drink made classically. To prove it’s not a fluke, I order another. It’s no fluke.

But I’m stymied by the dinner choices. To start, one must select between soup and a glass of chilled tomato juice.
“Is it sort of like a gazpacho?” I ask about the latter.
“No,” Diana says.
“How would you describe it?”
“Like a glass of tomato juice, chilled.”

Soon I am presented with the promised beverage, complete with accoutrements of Tabasco and Worchestershire. I’m as delighted as a kid at a make-your-own sundae station.
The appetizers tread familiar waters, from shrimp cocktail to smoked salmon with cream cheese. I’m torn between pickled herring and chopped liver (at just $5.75 each), and happily opt for a heap of sweet herring topped with a softball-sized dollop of sour cream and a solid dash of paprika, which was used as liberally as asbestos back in the day. With each bite I marvel that this dish has fallen out favour. It has a classic balance of savory and sweet, and despite its rich promise isn’t too filling.

Now I’m fortified enough to decide what cut of beef to order. Sure, there are a number of seafood options, including seldom-seen pickerel, but I didn’t travel 2,000 kilometres inland to eat fish. I survey the room for a read on local tastes and, suddenly, realize I’m the only guy wearing a suit and tie and probably the only one who doesn’t remember where he was when he heard JFK was shot. Apparently, the true appeal of this place is not as a hipster paean to a forgotten age but as an authentically fine eatery still succeeding by doing things the way it has been doing them for more than 50 years. Ironically, the coolest room around doesn’t give a damn about being cool.

I think about ordering the filet, which at $30.25 is strangely the cheapest steak on the menu. But when prime rib (for just $33.25) is on offer, why look further? It arrives with the rib still attached, with a little jar of hot horseradish to cut the absurd richness of the meat. With each bite I disavow short ribs and other trendy braises, which can only imitate the tenderness and flavour of the standing rib of a cow. For old times’ sake I eat only the tender inside of my baked potato—along with several pats of butter (served chilled, in a bowl with ice), a dollop of sour cream and some bacon. For dessert, I consume what appears to be an entire coconut cream pie ($5.50) shaped into a massive wedge in order to pass it off as a “slice.” I’m full. I’m happy. I’m the star of my own private 1950s film noir.

If the criterion for a great meal is how memorable it is, then I’ve had one of the greatest meals of my life. I say goodnight to Diana, who garnishes the evening with mint-chocolate Ovations on my bill. Soon, I know, I’ll be back in some haute Vancouver dining room, with a tea sommelier and a water sommelier competing for my attention or perhaps providing a poncy little stool to protect my wife’s designer purse from the floor. I could spend the rest of my life looking for another barkeep to make me a perfect Old Fashioned for $5.25. All things considered, a flight to Winnipeg is a small price to pay for a trip back in time. And for the best beef I’ve ever had. wl