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A New Times reporter was once stood up in Manalapan just before a big sushi date. Dejected, he decided to gorge on sushi anyway. No-could-do, though — the local sushi joint wasn't accepting debit cards that night. So the writer did what he hadn't done in a long, long time: He went to a steak house. Callaro's served him maybe the best prime rib of his life, as well as a succession of perfectly mixed Tanq 10 martinis. It kept him well watered and well breaded and gave him cause to lament the disappearance of creamed spinach and unadorned asparagus tips from modern-day menus. He stayed at Callaro's for two happy hours, with not even a book to keep him company. He didn't care.