Ah, to crave a steak.
It's amazing what we are willing to do for a really good piece of beef.
After chopping my hair off (oh, yes I did), I treat my
daughter to dinner. She and I throw
different ideas back and forth. We are
both trying to eat healthy, so a few of the possible venues get tossed simply
because they involve less-than-stellar meal choices. She suggests a steak house close to home. I've only been there once, coincidentally
with her, and, though steak sounds tempting, I wasn't exactly thrilled with my
meal when we ate there the first time.
We banter back and forth more ideas. She suggests another steak house, one closer
to the salon where I just shed my locks and waved goodbye to at least half my
gray hair. I've only been to this place
once, too, also coincidentally with her.
We had a decent meal, great service, and the place is reasonably priced,
so with that idea firmly in place, we both start salivating over steak.
When we arrive, the joint is jumping. It's a Friday night, the restaurant is
directly off the major interstate, and there may be a wait. But it's our lucky night. I know this because we take the last parking
spot, the spot right between the dumpster and a sleek Ducati motorcycle. The dumpster won't open its door and dent my
car, and the Ducati … well, it's a Ducati, for heaven's sake, a blood-red
848. No more need be said.
Inside there are very few seats, so we take a small booth in
the bar, and by small, I mean I am barely able to fit my butt onto the
miniature bench seat along with a pocketbook.
I'm dying for a steak, but four days prior the disk in my
temporomandibular joint seems to have spontaneously shifted. I've had some clicking and pain in my jaw
before, but this is crazy, with my lower jaw shifting so much that my teeth
hurt and I keep biting my tongue. My jaw
is still tender from its slow healing, and I'm not sure I can tolerate chewing
a steak. I resolve myself to a dinner of
soup and something easy to eat.
That's when my daughter makes the best suggestion I've heard
in years: We are going to order the
filet mignon. She swears it will melt
when I eat it.
I check the price, expecting a heart attack brought on by
hardening of my wallet's arteries.
Instead I see that it's a $20 meal and includes a salad and side, plus
the endless bread that appears on the table.
I'm very picky about beef when I order it out. Sure, it's filet mignon, but certainly
someone can manage to screw that up, right?
As we order the filet, daughter says she wants hers rare, and
I order mine medium rare. I used to be a
rare-meat gal. When I stick a fork into
beef, generally speaking I want the beef to moo back at me. Lately, though, I've been a little more
worried about food-borne crap I might catch from a kitchen I cannot see (I've
already told you about my severe control issues), so I opt for a couple of
extra seconds over the fire for my slab of steer.
We order drinks (glass of red wine and a lite draught beer),
and it takes forever to bring them to the booth, even though we are about five
feet from the bar and the taps. The
salads do not take as long, but our waiter throws them on the table as he
whizzes by, mumbling, "Enjoy your meal." This isn't so bad. I mean, at least he put the correct salad in
front of the correct person: ranch for
my daughter; house Italian for me.
Problem is there are no utensils on our table … and there
are no tables open anywhere in the place from which we might steal some.
We flag down another waiter, who graciously brings us an
entire container full of clean utensils wrapped in cloth napkins, and says,
"Here, I'll even let you pick!"
(Why couldn't we have gotten this waiter, one with a sense of
humor?) Eventually the rest of the meal
joins us. Like the Ducati parked
outside, the filets are blood-red and enough to bring tears to my eyes.
This is, indeed, a sweet piece of meat.
Not to exaggerate, either, but my daughter did not lie; this filet mignon is the most tender piece of
beef I have ever eaten, and I've had filet mignon at steak houses that consider
themselves far superior to the place at which we were eating. The filet mignon is like the consistency of
warm butter with the flavor of gourmet steak sauce. I am actually depressed when I have to take
the last bite because I know it will be the last bite. See?
Just talking about it is depressing me all over again.
Hey, I know that it is Good Friday when we visit the place,
but we're Protestant, or, rather, protestant with a small p, so we skipped the fish and went for the red meat. If God didn't want us to eat meat on Fridays,
especially Good Friday, then He shouldn't have created beef to be so damn
tasty.
Sunday is Easter. I
know I should be craving ham. I can feel
it in my bones and am trying to psych myself into it. But I have to be honest: very little would
make me happier than having another helping of that filet mignon, and I don't
even give a rat's patootie that we are at a chain restaurant. I don't care that my butt keeps dangling over
the side of the teeny bench seat, I don't mind that our bar order is delayed,
and I can even forgive the lack of eating utensils (as if we have visited the
Medieval Manor). I certainly pay for the
sore temporomandibular joint during the night when I awaken no less than four
times with shooting generalized pain.
But none of that is the filet's fault. In fact, I'm quite certain the filet helps,
and even if I cannot think of a single good reason why, I will stand behind
that assertion even in a court of law, if necessary.
Sadly, there are no leftovers to bring home. Even sadder, the Ducati is gone when we
arrive back at the car (the dumpster is still where we'd left it, though). I have had a great meal and a great evening
with my daughter. Wedding plans are
moving along nicely, and there will be a menu tasting in a few weeks. I wonder if there may be steak. Hmmmm, I'll bring a fork, just in case … (in
case the utensils go MIA, and in case I want to see if the steak moos back).
