I love shopping for meat.
And I especially love shopping for meat with my husband.
We plan entire Saturdays around breweries and butcher shops. The ideal scenario fills him with enough beer to be happy and agreeable, blinding swiping the credit card for mildly unreasonable meat purchases.
It is mid-afternoon and he is warm and fuzzy. We walk up to a butcher counter— perhaps tucked into the back of an unassuming neighborhood shop, multi-stall market, or gourmet chain. He looks over to me. “Let’s get a nice steak for dinner-- a really nice steak.”
My face scrunches critically. I become nervous. Why do we deserve a really nice steak anyway? Did we work that hard to drink those beers? Are we pretentious urbanites who have justthatmuch disposable income? Or perhaps we are just ignorant. Then, a wave of insecurity floods, showing the unflattering slump in my shoulders. Anyone can ask for a really nice steak. It’s the eater who knows better that asks for specialties and deals, for the expert’s advice. “Let’s see what they recommend.”
What I need is complexity; something with a challenge. If given an option too straight-forward, I’ll be bored after a few bites, a few moments. Give me something with bite and good flavor; I’ll come back for more. So for better or worse, if we’re buying a steak, our decision frequently lands on the most expensive, a Porterhouse. He can let the tender filet melt in his mouth while I nibble on the New York Strip, slicing it thin, eating half for dinner and carefully saving the rest to top a salad the next day. (Did I mention he hates leftovers?)
See, balance is key. I feel confident that if we purchased a whole cow, not one bit would go to waste. I’d present him with pristine plates of succulent steaks while braising tougher bits in my red ceramic soup pot for me to eat for days, weeks. If we both craved the same cuts, everyone loses, especially the poor cow. This way, we’re not conflicting, but complimentary.
I’m willing to go out of my way to be frugal and resourceful; he’s more about quality and time management. But you’d better believe that if I grind bits of scraps, carefully season them, and stuff them into plump sausages, he’ll sure as hell eat them. And enjoy them too. (Dammit.) But you know what? Sometimes, there’s nothing better than a foolproof, finely marbled filet.
