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Within a few minutes, the beef came in. Platters of it,NFL Hats slices stacked on bread, were set out on the tables. The platters were passed around from hand to hand, and eager beefsteakers plucked the meat with fingers. There were greasy chins and sauce-stained paper towels. The band — in white coats, bow ties, old straw hats — began to play. A heavyset woman dressed up as a drum majorette — Beefsteak Betty — marched across the stage with a sign saying, “BEEF” and encouraged the chewing crowd.

As the meat and beer took effect, an air of satiation settled in. It did not last long. Beefsteaks move with a digestive rhythm. With the beer flowing freely and the platters flying in (“Sustain yourselves, people,” Mr. Silverman yelled in back. “It’s a long day ahead!”), the crowd’s disposition soon lurched out of control.

A young man, with his apron flung behind him like a cape, began to jog about the room, pumping his fists and loudly shouting: “Beefsteak! Beefsteak! Yeah!” Empty plastic beer cups were erected into towers. Intoxicated beefsteakers placed their bread in piles and soaked the piles with horseradish, barbecue and chimichurri sauce. The band appeared for a second set in beefsteak aprons and butcher’s hats. A food fight began.

“Look, dude, tell your people we’ve got a zero-tolerance MLB Hats policy on bread-throwing, got it?” a security guard angrily informed Mr. Dermont. Moments later, a chunk of bread emerged from the crowd and dinged him on the head.