Baby, I Like it Raw
People don't like to dine with me. I have food quirks that make it difficult to order a meal in a restaurant. I like food that is red or purple, I abhor overcooked vegetables, and I like my steaks really, really rare.
For years, I have tried to hide my preference for raw meat. I frequent dimly lit restaurants, so that I can eat my bloody meat in peace. Over dinner, I make jokes about the movie, Rosemary's Baby, insinuating that I have been impregnated with Satan's spawn. I use humor to deflect attention from my affinity for raw meat, but deep down inside, I am considering devouring my dining companions with a side of gorgonzola if my entree doesn't show up soon.
When I order a steak, I give explicit directions. I like it bloody, but not moving. I say things like, "shoot it before you serve it," or "I'd like it with it's nose freshly wiped with a side of roasted asparagus," or "no, really, the lightbulb in here should be enough to cook it thoroughly". Sometimes (rarely), my steak is prepared correctly and I watch it take it's last breath on my plate.
I have been craving red meat for weeks. I caught myself absentmindedly singing the Outback Steakhouse jingle the other day. Driving home, I slowed down to admire roadkill in an unhealthy way. The thing is, I like raw meat. Not rare. Raw. When I have cravings, I like to indulge them.
For three nights, I have eaten at bars. I go to bars to drink vodka, but my friends appear to have an appreciation for bar food. They know where to get the best wings and mozzarella cheese sticks. I try to avoid the sensation of gnashing my teeth on bone and I have a fear of frying and so generally, I avoid bar menus. This week, each night, I have carefully ordered raw red meat accompanied by some kind of vegetable. Each night, I have been disappointed.
Monday night, my steak was nicely peppered, but fatty. Tuesday, my steak was overcooked and much like sawdust smothered in some kind of mushroomy sauce. Last night, the steak tips on my salad were tough and sinewy.
Each night, I have requested a to go box. As I transfer the improperly cooked contents from my plate to the styrofoam box, I tell myself that tomorrow night will be different.
I have had it with these muthaf*ckin steaks in a muthaf*ckin bar.