A Really Big Steak
There are days when I get excited about things.
Unfortunately those days are few and far between as I get older, but that's because the things that used to fire me up seem a little too tiresome now.
Not going to the market day, though.
We were out of steak.
That's a problem in our house because my kids really like steak. Perhaps we would have been better off not introducing them to it, but man, there's nothing like a good Porterhouse.
I headed to Elk Provision on Clinton Street in Buffalo. That's our place, and it has been since we were kids. I know all of the butchers. When I get through the door I hear one thing over and over.
"Hey Fuzzy!"
You see, my Dad might have been the best customer of all back thirty or forty years ago.
I was talking with my brother Jim as I hit the door. He seemed excited for me.
I went into the freezer and picked out my own short loin and then watched as one of my buddies cut it into perfect, huge steaks.
Twenty of them.
He brought the huge hunk of meat to the counter to have it weighed just before cutting it up.
When Ed, the owner and a dear friend of Dad's, saw the slab of meat he said:
"It's either for one of the Fuzzy boys or Donald Trump."
Back home I left them out to marinate and my boys happened upon them.
"Holy crap! Who's eating those?" Sam asked.
"You are. Let's see what you got."
I cooked the four steaks in three different ways.
Burnt-shoe leather for my beautiful wife.
Medium rare for Jake and Sam.
Rare and with peppers and onions for me.
We all started eating, and we ate and we ate and we ate.
As I ate it occurred to me that they were more than 20 ounce steaks.
"I couldn't do it," Jake announced as he walked away from the table. There were about four pieces left. Sam left about six. Kathy ate about 1/2 of hers.
Mine was gone.
But it hadn't been easy.
I couldn't leave any though.
I'm a Fuzzy boy.
I had to finish.
Unfortunately those days are few and far between as I get older, but that's because the things that used to fire me up seem a little too tiresome now.
Not going to the market day, though.
We were out of steak.
That's a problem in our house because my kids really like steak. Perhaps we would have been better off not introducing them to it, but man, there's nothing like a good Porterhouse.
I headed to Elk Provision on Clinton Street in Buffalo. That's our place, and it has been since we were kids. I know all of the butchers. When I get through the door I hear one thing over and over.
"Hey Fuzzy!"
You see, my Dad might have been the best customer of all back thirty or forty years ago.
I was talking with my brother Jim as I hit the door. He seemed excited for me.
I went into the freezer and picked out my own short loin and then watched as one of my buddies cut it into perfect, huge steaks.
Twenty of them.
He brought the huge hunk of meat to the counter to have it weighed just before cutting it up.
When Ed, the owner and a dear friend of Dad's, saw the slab of meat he said:
"It's either for one of the Fuzzy boys or Donald Trump."
Back home I left them out to marinate and my boys happened upon them.
"Holy crap! Who's eating those?" Sam asked.
"You are. Let's see what you got."
I cooked the four steaks in three different ways.
Burnt-shoe leather for my beautiful wife.
Medium rare for Jake and Sam.
Rare and with peppers and onions for me.
We all started eating, and we ate and we ate and we ate.
As I ate it occurred to me that they were more than 20 ounce steaks.
"I couldn't do it," Jake announced as he walked away from the table. There were about four pieces left. Sam left about six. Kathy ate about 1/2 of hers.
Mine was gone.
But it hadn't been easy.
I couldn't leave any though.
I'm a Fuzzy boy.
I had to finish.
Comments