It was our loftiest intention to bring to you a choice morsel of grilling immortality this week, but the truth is, I ate it. Oh it was, shall we say, a beautiful T-Bone steak, bountiful in mass, and juicy, seared then grilled unto utter perfection over a hemorrhaging bed of hard wood coals. Indeed it was I guess. Lightly seasoned in onion and garlic, and not a shade less than meat utopia on a bone, and I ate it all. Prematurely launching into its savory flesh like a dingo to a bull frog. I did not possess the mental faculty to pause even, and take a picture for you. Nor to document the endeavor in due respect. The zeal ran high and the patience thin, you might say, where the wood smoke gently curled. And by the time I plated up, it was already too late. You must understand that it was a feverish, man-versus-meat scenario. Simultaneously disgusting yet wonderful. An event where instincts were to take over, and all manners cast over the flannel-clad shoulder. There was grunting, growling and belching involved. The heady sounds of incisors ripping into red meat. Bits of grizzled fat flipping headlong through the air. Long, ghastly stares from my bride. Oh it was good people. And I ate every bit of it.
Thus, I have nothing to show you this time around but a singly savaged T-bone on a bare ceramic plate, laying prostrate in its own juices. What can I say. The steak was there. I was there. It was mutual I think. Some days are like that I guess. Some days we eat our homework. Aw well.
We are men, and we eat meat. Not that that we require meat every day or anything, but when we do, we want it to be worthy of the wages that beset our colon, not to mention our pocket book. When the day has ebbed long, evening shadows breaking, and we waddle through the kitchen door, pekid and of trembling legs from a day’s long labor, are we not secretly hoping for a big, thick, and decidedly juicy steak, plopped on a platter, juices oozing, sided with a plentiful allotment of potatoes? You’re darn right we are. We are men! We will never turn down a steak, so long as as our doctor is not in the room. Even women get this way from time to time, deliriously entombed in the heady thralls of meat lust. And we are not to analyze why, but instead to procure a succulent T-Bone or the like in short fashion. Yes indeed, there are some days in a pit keeper’s life menu where he must at once, and savagely so maybe, abandon all fanciful marinades and intricate rubs, and get down to the primal business of just putting meat to flame, and worry of nothing else. On days like this, and your body will tell you when, nothing quite so hits the spot better, than a big steak, and a lovely side of potatoes. That is all we need. Man fuel at its most basic. And hunger shall be our spice.
With meager fanfare, let us then lay meat to flame, and declare that it is good. An appetizer of chicken wings to start, just because. Then a thick T-Bone perfectly seared ought to do, surrounded in love by a starchy congregation of potatoes. Spuds rubbed first in olive oil, and seasoned lightly with a little salt, and a little pepper. Placed in kindly order over direct heat. And the steak, oh that beloved cut of beef that we have longed for so long, of all the things we cook on the pit here, this one holds a special place. I shall not regale you with a litany of promising spice and marinade, because in point of fact, there are none. Not for steak. Oh people do, and have a dear old time I know. But of all the meats in the grilling arts, I think I like to keep steak the simplest. Just a dash of garlic and and a touch of onion salt, and nothing more, seared in smokey perfection over a hardwood fire. Dang! Good meat will do the talking, by and far, if we would just get out of its way.
You could get a whole lot fancier, but nothing will hit the spot more keenly, nor lobby for a man’s fuel so feverishly, than fire grilled T-bone steak and potatoes. We are men you see. And if this is all we had, it would be alright. Amen.