Steak
Or, "A Father's Duty"
My son orders his steak medium, the way his father taught him.
I’ve created this monster, and I’m equal parts proud and embarrassed. My son is 11 years old. Never mind that he looks 15 and sounds 25, speaking in a smooth baritone that makes 14 year old girls heads turn. I created that as well, my baritone turning his mother’s head once.
That is beside the point.
The point is that he has had steak often enough, at restaurants, to both have a preference and be able to articulate it to a waiter with no hesitation. Medium. With no au poivre, please. Clearly I still have work to do.
He does still like mashed potatoes, a last handhold to childhood.
Is there any more telling sign that my wife and I have given him a good life? At least, good enough for him to order 16 ounces of prime ribeye with pink in the middle. The questioning “Are you ok with this?” glance that I get from the waiter is never late. I simply raise my beer slightly and nod. His mother and I chuckle as we order salads, hers with grilled chicken and mine a Caesar. I splurge and get clam chowder as well.
A small sacrifice. My boy will have his steak.
When I was younger, I had my steak as well; beef from my grandparents’ farm filled our freezer. My mother, who was gifted in the kitchen arts, churned out meal after meal of hamburger, spaghetti with meat sauce. She made steak and gravy with the cheaper cuts of steak.
The more desirable cuts were cooked by themselves as standalone steaks. In her culinary mind, however, the steaks were meant to be always well-done; all gray. I wish she was still around to see her grandson loving his ribeyes, caramelized on the outside and pink on the inside, the way God intended. Part of me thinks she would have converted. The other part thinks she would have grilled her steaks even more to prove a point, tenderized by some arcane ritual that she wouldn’t pass down.
But in the present day, I inform my son, for whom 16 ounces of prime beef and creamy mashed potatoes is too much, that I will eat the rest of his steak for breakfast.
(I invite you to save your judgement.)
He nods in understanding. Because he is 11, and does not yet grasp the work involved to get guilt-free ribeye on the table, served to him by surprised waitstaff.
Cleanup will fall to the man who taught him to order his steak medium.
