11 Must-Try Regional Steak Dishes

The story of American steak isn’t just about prime cuts and high-end steakhouses. It’s about how different regions across the country developed their own unique ways of preparing beef — techniques and traditions that sometimes never made it beyond their local borders.

These are the regional specialties that rarely make it into food magazines. Dishes born from necessity and ingenuity: pork steaks slow-braised in beer in St. Louis barbecues, finger steaks battered and fried in Idaho taverns, tri-tip grilled over red oak in California backyards. Each region found its own way with what it had, developing techniques that became traditions.

Local pride runs deep with these dishes. Every town has its spot that does it right, every family has its method that’s been passed down — and don’t even think about telling a local you’ve found a better version somewhere else. Old recipes surface on stained notepaper and cause a sensation on Facebook. Fierce debates break out over proper cooking times, correct seasoning, acceptable sides, and so many details that people love to hold on to.

Whether these dishes were created by immigrant families adapting old-world techniques, butchers finding new ways to use overlooked cuts, or just someone trying something different at a local joint, they’ve become part of their region’s identity. Here are the best regional steak dishes you need to try.

The year was 1930, and Pat Olivieri was working his hot dog stand in South Philadelphia’s Italian Market. Probably tired of staring at the same hot dogs all day, he decided to throw some beef on the grill for his lunch. A passing cab driver, drawn in by that irresistible aroma of beef and onions, asked for one himself. We have all had a similar moment in the kitchen when someone walks in and says, “What smells so good?” 

After devouring it, the cab driver convinced him to make the switch from hot dogs to steak sandwiches. Pat took his advice and the sandwich became so popular that he opened his own restaurant which still operates today as Pat’s King of Steaks. A decade later, ‘Cocky Joe Larenza’, the manager of Pat’s, added some provolone. And what we now know as the Philly cheesesteak was born.

While debate rages about the best place to get a cheesesteak (and Philadelphians have opinions), according to Anthony Bourdain, the best cheesesteak isn’t in Philly. It’s across the bridge in Camden, New Jersey, at a quaint little joint called Donkey’s Place. They do things a little differently in New Jersey, with a poppy seed kaiser roll instead of a hoagie. But it’s got what matters, that thinly cut frizzled rib-eye, melt in your mouth grilled onions, and American cheese that melts into every crevice.

Chicken fried steak is a classic Southern comfort food. Like many great American dishes, the exact origins are a bit murky, wrapped in legend and local lore. Some say it was inspired by German and Austrian immigrants bringing their wiener schnitzel techniques to Texas in the mid-1800s. Whether that’s true or not, what we do know is that someone had the amazing idea to take a tough cut of beef and give it the fried chicken treatment.

The process is a master class in turning humble ingredients into something special. Take a cheap cut of beef, usually cube steak, and tenderize it. Dredge it in seasoned flour, dip it in egg wash, then back in the flour for that extra-crispy coating that’s going to hold up under a blanket of gravy. And that gravy? Made from the pan drippings, it’s a creamy, peppery sauce that does double duty: It adds moisture to the lean meat while bringing another layer of flavor to every bite.

If you’ve ever wondered about the difference between chicken fried steak and country fried steak, it’s in the frying method. Chicken fried gets the full deep-fry treatment, while country fried is shallow-fried in a skillet. Both are good, but that deep-fry gives chicken fried steak a more even, crispier crust that shatters just right when your fork hits it.

In the mid-1990s, San Diego’s Lolita’s Mexican Food created something that would change late-night eating forever: carne asada fries. It’s a simple but super delicious combination — crispy french fries topped with perfectly grilled carne asada, then loaded with guacamole, sour cream, and melted cheese.

The star of the show is the carne asada itself — thinly sliced skirt steak marinated and charred until it gets that perfect crust that only comes from high heat and experience. The fries underneath need to be just right too, crispy enough to stand up to that mountain of toppings without turning soggy.

This isn’t just another fusion dish — it’s a perfect representation of San Diego’s border culture, where Mexican grilling traditions meet American fast food creativity. While you can find versions of this dish elsewhere, Lolita’s remains the gold standard, serving up what might be the ultimate late-night comfort food.

If you find yourself in California’s Santa Maria Valley, you’re in for a treat that most of the country hasn’t discovered yet. Picture this: Pepper-garlic crusted beef, grilled over glowing red oak until it’s crusty outside and pink within, served alongside pinquito beans, fresh green salad, and grilled French bread that’s been dunked in melted garlic butter. This is tri-tip, Santa Maria style, and it’s arguably California’s greatest contribution to American barbecue.

The star of the show is a distinctive triangle-shaped cut from the bottom sirloin. It sits right where the sirloin meets the flank — a lean but flavorful cut that most butchers used to overlook because it was a little tricky to get to, and you only got one per carcass. That is, until someone in Santa Maria in the 1950s (legend credits Bob Schutz at the Santa Maria Market) decided to give it a chance as a stand-alone steak.

It’s cooked over a custom iron grill that usually has a hand crank to adjust the height over the coals. Unlike Southern “low and slow” barbecue, Santa Maria style uses a hotter fire and quicker cooking time.

Ask 10 people outside of Iowa if they’ve heard of Steak de Burgo, and you’ll likely get 10 blank stares. Ask 10 people in Des Moines about it, and you’ll probably start a heated debate about who makes it best.

“When that de Burgo sauce hits that hot plate, you can smell it throughout the entire restaurant,” says Pat Morris, head chef at Tursi’s Latin King Restaurant speaking to WHO TV.

The dish is simple — beef tenderloin steaks bathed in a rich sauce of olive oil, butter, garlic, and Italian herbs, often enriched with cream or white wine. It’s been a Des Moines staple since the 1950s, though like all good food origin stories, there’s some friendly debate about who created it. Johnny & Kay’s claims it was their brainchild, while Vic’s Tally Ho insists they were the first. But in Des Moines, they’re less concerned with who invented it and more focused on who’s serving it.

It’s the kind of regional specialty that makes you realize how many incredible American dishes are still out there, hiding in plain sight, beloved by locals but virtually unknown to the rest of the country.

In St. Louis, summer means smoke signals from pop-up barbecue stands on nearly every corner. Folks with beat-up Weber grills and decades of know-how, cooking up pork steaks in parking lots and outside corner stores. The same scene plays out in backyards across the city — lawn chairs circled around charcoal grills, coolers full of Busch, and that familiar smell of meat and sauce hanging in the air. No fancy equipment, no artisanal wood blends — just meat, fire, beer, and sauce. And they’re probably doing it better than whatever expensive barbecue joint just opened downtown.

The star of the show is a cut you might not find at your local butcher outside the Midwest — steaks sliced from the pork butt (which, confusingly, is the shoulder), cut about 1 inch thick. The magic happens in three stages. First, the steaks get a proper seasoning — salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, and sometimes a touch of sugar. Then comes the initial sear, getting them over direct heat just long enough to develop that amazing crust. But it’s the next step that sets St. Louis pork steaks apart — a long, lazy braise in a mixture that’s pure Midwest: Equal parts beer and St. Louis-style barbecue sauce. That sauce is key, because St. Louis barbecue sauce has a vinegary tang that helps break down the meat during that crucial two to three hour braise. The meat gets basted with thinned-out sauce throughout, keeping everything moist while building layers of flavor.

Every region has those dishes that locals take for granted and outsiders have never heard of. In New England, it’s steak tips – tender chunks of marinated and char-grilled sirloin flap. You’ll find them on neighborhood bar menus across the region, served up in paper-lined baskets alongside fries, a familiar sight to locals but a delicious discovery for visitors.

When butchers cut a piece of meat to the standard portions, the excess pieces become steak tips. Many butchers might grind this into hamburger meat, but New England cooks figured out that with the right marinade and proper cooking technique, you can transform it into something special. The preparation is simple, but like all great bar food, there’s a method to it. The meat needs time to tenderize in its marinade before meeting a screaming hot grill. The goal is to get a good char on the outside while keeping the inside pink. Most places finish them with a generous coating of barbecue sauce, creating that perfect balance of char, tenderness, and tang.

In Idaho bars and restaurants, you’ll find a unique local specialty: finger steaks. Strips of beef cut to the length of fingers, battered or breaded, then deep-fried until golden brown. Simple, satisfying bar food at its best. You’ll find these crispy strips in bars and restaurants across southern Idaho, typically served with fry sauce (a mix between ketchup and mayonnaise). They’ve spread to some surrounding states, though they remain distinctly Idaho’s own.

The dish traces back to the 1950s, when Milo Bybee was working as a United States Forest Service meat cutter in Idaho’s central mountains. Looking to make use of every bit of beef, including the trimmings, he created what would become an Idaho icon. When he opened Mylo’s Torch Lounge in Boise a few years later, his finger steaks quickly became the talk of the town.

Decades after the bar stopped serving finger steaks in 1997, Bybee’s original recipe had remained the stuff of local legend. Then one day, Mylo’s great nephew shared it on a Facebook group called History of Boise, Idaho — From 1863. The recipe, scrawled on an old, stained piece of paper, even included the dipping sauce instructions. “Everyone has been talking about the Torch and its legendary finger steaks,” Allen Haumann posted. “I decided I’d do y’all a favor and reveal the recipe!” Within 24 hours, it had been shared 700 times, showing just how passionate Idahoans remain about their favorite regional steak dish.

In bars and homes across South Dakota, you’ll find skewers of deep-fried cubes of meat, crusty on the outside, rare within, served with nothing more than garlic salt and soda crackers. This is chislic — simple, satisfying, and distinctly South Dakotan.

You’ll find chislic in bars, informal restaurants, and family kitchens across the state. It’s made with either beef steak, mutton, or lamb, which is often marinated first. Travel across South Dakota, and you’ll discover how each area puts its own spin on this local favorite. In Pierre, they batter the meat before frying. Head to Sioux Falls, and you’ll find it dusted lightly with flour beforehand. Around Watertown, don’t be surprised to see ranch dressing on the side, while in Redfield, you’d better not serve it without Lawry’s Seasoned Salt.

At the heart of what locals call the “Chislic Circle” sits Freeman, a town of just over 1,300 people that proudly claims the title of chislic capital of America. This small farming community might not look like a food destination, but it’s earned its place in South Dakota’s culinary history.

At roadside stands throughout Baltimore, you’ll find pit beef, the city’s signature steak sandwich. Top round roast is marinated with spices and charcoal-grilled to perfection, developing a perfect crust while staying juicy and rare inside. The beef is sliced thin and then piled high on a kaiser roll or rye bread. It’s topped with thick slices of raw onion and your choice of condiments, traditionally a sinus-clearing horseradish sauce, though some locals opt for barbecue sauce. This simple combination creates a sandwich that’s beefy, smoky, sharp, and utterly Baltimore.

The pit beef emerged in the city’s east-side, working-class neighborhoods in the 1970s, particularly along Pulaski Highway. What started as humble roadside stands gradually evolved into some becoming proper restaurants, though they still maintain that rustic, no-frills charm.

While there is a lot of media hype around Chaps Pit Beef, locals have their own opinions — for example, Pioneer Pit Beef is also very popular. It’s exactly what you’d hope for: a tiny yellow shack behind a liquor store, woodpile by the door, cash only, and a couple of picnic tables for seating. No pretense, just a charcoal grill, quality beef, and people who know exactly what they’re doing with it.

They call it “black and blue” — a steak charred so intensely on the outside it’s nearly black, while the inside stays cool and rare. This is Pittsburgh-style, a technique that takes the high-heat searing method to its absolute limit, creating a steak that’s unlike anything else.

While you can Pittsburgh any good cut — ribeye, strip, filet mignon — it’s the cooking method that defines it. The heat needs to be scorching, way hotter than your typical grill or pan. The result is a steak with a serious crust but a center that’s barely touched by heat.

Legend has it that this style was born in Pittsburgh’s steel mills, where workers would bring their raw steaks to work and cook them on the blast furnaces during their lunch breaks. These furnaces, which reached temperatures of up to 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit, would char the outside of the meat in seconds while leaving the inside practically raw. It’s probably just a story — but it’s the kind of story that sticks because it makes perfect sense in a city built on steel and fire.