11 Steak Sauces, Ranked Worst To Best

Though some may argue a perfectly cooked steak needs no sauce to accompany the greatness of red meat's pinnacle, I prefer the tang of a classic steak sauce. There's an interesting history behind steak sauce's association with the meat. Originally invented as a catch-all sauce intended to doll up all sorts of meats and fish, A1 sauce and its ilk pivoted to a specifically red meat-centric dressing once the condiment fell into the hands of marketing minds in the 1960s. Since then, copycats and purported upgrades now populate a dedicated space in most American supermarkets.

Brands like Peter Luger, HP, and Heinz enjoy a history nearly as storied as the original A1. Modern brands like Whole Foods' 365, Walmart's Great Value, and Rufus Teague compete for real estate in the condiment aisle alongside other steak sauce spinoffs from established brands such as Texas Roadhouse and Crystal Hot Sauce.

And as someone in the mood for a slab of medium-rare red meat on a weekly basis, I decided to test-drive 11 of the most prominent and promising brands on shelves today. They are ranked from my least favorite to the sauce I crowned as steak sauce's greatest store-bought achievement. Keep scrolling for the holy grail of steak sauce hierarchy.

While not quite America's oldest steakhouse, Peter Luger's original Brooklyn restaurant first welcomed guests in 1887 and remains a prominent name in the country's dining culture today (just consider the two secrets that make Peter Luger burgers better than yours).

The historic steakhouse now boasts outposts in both Las Vegas and Tokyo, and a quick trip to its website contains tabs for both the brand's online store and butcher shop. And while the company's crew neck T-shirts don't tempt me at all, the butcher shop's meat offerings and steak sauce appear formidable.

But, to sample a bottle of the famous Peter Luger steak sauce, I needed only to travel to my nearest Walmart to pick up a 12.6-ounce bottle, which sells for a comparably hefty $13-$15. So, does the sauce live up to its costly price and the legendary steakhouse's reputation? Confoundingly, the glitzy steakhouse (which lost its Michelin star in 2022) fell flat on all counts once my strip of steak met the thin, watery sauce. It lacked the clingy adhesion of all of the other sauces while also sporting a paler hue. Closer to a burnt orange than the molasses brown of most steak sauces, the pallid tone hinted at the sauce's overall lackluster nature. Like a diluted ketchup with a splash of horseradish, the sauce reflected poorly on the iconic establishment, finishing at the bottom of this list. It tainted my impression of the steakhouse as well as my bite of ribeye.

Not to be confused with Charli XCX's raucous 2024 hit, Whole Foods' private label (and short-lived grocery offshoot) 365 first launched in 1995, aping Trader Joe's successful house-branding of familiar but reduced-priced products.

While my 365 knowledge mostly remains in the snacking sphere (see the best and worst 365 brand snacks to buy at Whole Foods), I've found core ingredients like the label's chicken stock as well as its frozen fruits and vegetables comparable to brand-name collections. So its sauce line seemed promising until the condiment hit my palate. 

Initially a direct imitation of A1, the 365 steak sauce plummets off the tongue before I can even swallow a forkful of steak. Like a wine with no backbone, the 365 sauce made a first impression that crested toward A1's legendary flavor but quickly evaporated into sweet, non-dimensional nothingness. The sauce is distinctly vinegar-based, but I question the quality of the acidic ingredient after experiencing its short-lived charm. It possessed about as much staying power as a first date with off-putting political views. Generic in every regard, 365's steak sauce neglects the value of private labels and delivers a condiment half the price but also half the flavor of brand-name competitors.

Marketing itself as a premium, blue-label brand, Rufus Teague celebrated its 20th year in business in 2024. It largely specializes in barbecue-based seasonings, sauces, snacks, and even coffee. So maybe unsurprisingly, the company's steak sauce entry inherits the brand's barbecue-tilted affectation.

The Rufus Teague steak sauce was so thick that it needed a persistent prodding from my butter knife to persuade the lumpy condiment from its flask-shaped glass bottle. In every sense more of a barbecue slather than a proper steak sauce, Rufus Teague's version tasted great but in no way earned the label of steak sauce. Warm baking spices immediately make themselves present and refuse to dissipate with the assistance of vinegar, instead sticking to the palate with an almost tannic quality. Proper for a brush-basted rack of ribs, Rufus Teague's steak sauce clashed with the exact meat the brand decided it was meant for. It's disgraceful not because of the recipe but instead because of its suggested application. The concoction doesn't dissuade me from the company's other products more aimed at its strength, but the steak sauce, in a short 7-ounce bottle, proved as nonsensical as asking Radiohead to cover a Post Malone tune.

A brand now synonymous with America's most widely used condiment, ketchup, Heinz followed up its smash 1876 tomato-based hit with its signature 57 steak sauce in 1911. Though Heinz branched out with other products over the years and became one of the largest food and beverage companies in the world after its 2015 merger with Kraft Foods, the 57 sauce itself persevered and even spawned a series of higher-end, chef-inspired sauces for home cooks in 2022. While I may not be Heinz's demographic for its culinary crunch jars or infused honey bottles, I stay loyal to its celebrated ketchup and rarely stray from its name-brand benchmark. 

Heinz 57 sauce, however, falls short of the brand's emblematic ketchup. Delicate compared to the fierce zing of A1 and other steak sauces of its ilk, the 57 sauce can't meet the heft of red meat's boldness. It tastes meek during a bite of steak. Despite the pleasantly fusing flavors of the 57 sauce, it is better fit for chicken breast or even roasted fish. The 57 sauce's qualities are far from offensive, but it is too light on the palate and lacks steak sauce's mandatory notes of vinegar in favor of fruity, sweet notes of apple puree and tomato.

Selling at around the same price as A1 ($7-8), Braswell's Vidalia onion steak sauce definitely positions itself as a somewhat upscale option with its dense glass bottle. The catch-all food company dates back to 1946 and produces a dizzying amount of jams, mustards, salad dressings, sauces, and even chutneys. A quick drive-by of its website displays a crowded home screen of items I never knew existed. While the brand's logo and label look vaguely familiar, I lack any real-time interaction with the offerings from Braswell's. So I happily walked (or dunked) my steak bite into its sauce with more or less a clean slate and an open mind.

I discovered a barbecue-leaning, thick (almost chunky), paste-like sauce that wasn't unpleasant but an odd choice in both consistency and flavor to suggest for a steak pairing. As oniony as the label explains, Braswell's Vidalia onion steak sauce smacks of exactly that: caramelized onions both too sweet and too cooked to amiably match a steak.

Braswell's steak sauce is possibly an offbeat alternative for a steak eater who eschews vinegar as a main character in a steak sauce. I suppose its place among the other steak-intended condiments lies in its complete disregard for the zest I assumed all steak sauces must obligatorily embrace.

Despite its Southern title, the Texas Roadhouse steakhouse chain owes its origin story to Clarksville, Indiana, where the popular fast-casual dinner spot opened its first restaurant in 1993. Now, over 30 years later, the franchise operates more than 700 locations worldwide and has expanded into supermarkets with frozen dinner rolls, butter spreads, margarita mix, spice rubs, and sauces. One of two steak accompaniments (the other being a smoky Roadhouse Gold sauce), the brand's classic steak sauce falls in line with Texas Roadhouse's overall achievements.

Like its physical restaurants, Texas Roadhouse's classic steak sauce delivers a little lowbrow appeal with pizzazz that pays off inside its signature bottle. Tangy, tomato-heavy, and among the stickiest, the condiment encapsulates the broad strokes of a steak sauce while subtle undertones evade the $5 bottle.

The sauce was sweeter than expected. Its flavor sparked a curiosity to explore the steakhouse's expansive in-person menu with friends. The interest was fueled not only by the company's unlikely success story but also by its smart product line. Though I'd never toss aside A1 for Texas Roadhouse's classic offering, I'd be pleased enough to see a bottle in an in-law's fridge.

The contribution of Walmart's Great Value label to the steak sauce canon lives up to its title and easily satiates the key earmarks of a classic steak sauce at nearly a third of the cost of A1. Brighter and punchier than any of the other sampled sauces, Walmart's bargain condiment copies the general composition of its pricier rivals. Tomato paste, raisin paste, and vinegar cohabitate in a 10-ounce bottle that sells for under $3. Together, this combination of ingredients largely pleases the broad definition of steak sauce. Lacking a final note and the full scope delivered by A1 and other name-brand sauces, though, the Great Value sauce reminded me of a high school friend whom I've mostly outgrown but ultimately feel a youthful, though underdeveloped, tug toward.

Unsurprisingly better, more refined sauces can be found on Walmart's shelves, but the store's attempt at capturing steak sauce's essence at a price point far below more recognizable labels ultimately counts as an achievement. Perfect for large-scale cookouts or the base for a marinade, Great Value's titular cheapie steak sauce might prove most valuable when hosting so many steak eaters that demand for sauce overpowers the contents of a single bottle.

The Louisiana-based Crystal hot sauce brand began selling its top-notch, cayenne pepper and vinegar-based condiment over 100 years ago, though its steak sauce remained unknown to me before this investigation. Despite Crystal's failure to break into the vernacular of widely known steak sauces, its strong brand presence as well as the quality of its founding product convinced me to include its contribution in this steak sauce ranking. It didn't disappoint.

A quick glance at the bottle reveals Crystal's wise choice to lean into what the New Orleans brand knows best: spice blends. About seven shades deeper than the brand's signature hot sauce, the Crystal steak sauce trumps the other highfalutin gestures toward the condiment. Less vinegar-heavy than most steak sauces, Crystal's rendition offers a bouquet of spices and flavors, including orange peels and tamarind, that makes a nod to the condiment's roots while also delivering a distinct flavor.

Owing its name to an abbreviation for U.K.'s Houses of Parliament, HP Sauce contains a rich history dating back to the late 1800s. Known simply as "brown sauce" across the pond, the slender bottle houses an alluring blend of malt vinegar, tamarind, dates, molasses, and tomatoes.

Perhaps the best-textured of all the sauces sampled, HP Sauce is smartly housed in a squeeze bottle and boasts a smooth, nearly velvety consistency that none of the other condiments can claim. Skewing just a skosh sweet for my overall preference, HP Sauce proved not only a formidable accomplice for my medium-rare wonder, but also a pleasant accompaniment to the bites of Texas toast and baked potato my go-to steakhouse sends out as its obligatory sides. 

HP Sauce finishes as a bronze medalist in this ranking only because the final two competitors are stronger. I now believe stashing a bottle of HP Sauce in your condiment collection will pay off with leftover prime rib or pot roast sandwiches because of its silky, spreadable composition and its slight slant toward sweet notes that I suspect would pair well with the crunch of iceberg lettuce, the fatty qualities of cheese, and a compatibility with mustard and mayonnaise.

Another old-school, old-world classic, London Pub steak sauce with an unassuming price tag of less than $5 hits all of the notes of a typical steak sauce. Zesty thanks to malt vinegar, a black pepper-forward taste, and unctuous savory notes, the London Pub steak accompaniment tastes akin to a reduced Worcestershire sauce. It boasts the boldest notes of all the sauces on this list. While I douse my steaks in A1, London Pub's brazen tang begs for a gentler touch. I merely dabbed my meat into the glossy, deep-brown dressing as opposed to covering my steak from corner to corner as I do with A1.

It unmistakably belongs in the steak sauce arena. But my preference among London Pub, HP, and A1 feels almost imperceivable and completely subjective. Where a small set of sauces simply disappointed me when met with a bite of steak (see Peter Luger and 365) and others failed to resonate as proper steak sauces (see Braswell's and Rufus Teague), London Pub satisfies every hallmark of a classic steak sauce while also delivering slight tweaks that differentiate it from the original A1 steak sauce.

A1 sauce is widely known as ground zero in the steak sauce world. Steaks for the past 200 years would have suffered if King George IV's private chef, Henderson William Brand, had failed to invent this sauce to please his employer.

But like Marty McFly, Brand completed his mission and forever altered the fabric of history. If not for the inventive chef, we might still be lacking an entire genre of the tangy condiment, and therefore I owe the existence of this list to the long-dead innovator. And still, despite the countless advancements in modernity since A1's first gasp, the original A1 sauce still stands tall as the gold standard of store-bought steak sauces.

Admittedly, I inherently measure all steak sauces against the yardstick of A1's sweeping appeal. This is the steak sauce of my childhood and the first to ever touch my tongue. Separating the sauce's familiarity from the nostalgic expectation I experience while dousing a ramekin's worth of A1 onto my plate proves impossible. When I crave steak sauce, I imagine the tangy, savory balance of A1's perfected recipe. Made from raisins and black pepper, A1 hits every button in my brain's pleasure center for under $7 a bottle. While other steak sauces attempt to beat A1 at its own game or reinvent the wheel, A1 is the wheel, even after all these years.

A lifelong steak enthusiast, I consider myself especially adept at judging the credibility of accoutrements for my preferred red meat. At home, I often rely on homemade au poivre or chimichurri. But whenever I frequent my local dive, I seek out A1. As a tradition, I drag myself to said dive on New Year's Day to take a break from cooking and rejuvenate my party-tattered body with much-needed, non-alcoholic calories.

For this ranking, I traveled to my beloved dive with a padded tote brimming with steak sauce options. As always, I ordered a ribeye with a side of Texas toast and a baked potato with all the trimmings. Other than intentionally saving A1 for the tasting's finale, I sampled each sauce several times with its intended vehicle that was cooked perfectly, thanks to the team who feeds me the most steak every year. I kept a spare plate for dabbing, dunking, and dipping my steak and pinkie finger into various sauces throughout my meal as my friends ate around me in compassionate consideration of my mission. Each sauce was ranked based on overall flavor, innovation, texture, and value. 

I purchased a wide variety of steak sauces for this ranking. I intended to include Lea & Perrin's steak sauce in my rundown but quickly discovered its scarcity in the U.S. Similarly, any sauce that seemed too regional, niche, or rare was omitted from this tasting. This ranking, then, serves as a universal guide for easy-to-access store-bought steak sauces.