There's a lot of productive things I could be doing right now. It's Friday afternoon on a cold gloomy day. I could be marketing my book, working on the next, serving clients, selling my new course, learning new skills or hitting the gym.
But I am but a mere pawn of Higher Incomprehensible Forces, and they have other plans for me. Their message is clear.
Tonight’s the night. It has to happen. Must happen.
Steak Night.
What I am compelled by is Dexter-like in it’s force and inevitability.
This is why I'm at the Butcher Shop looking through a window of seductively red meats. This is not your typical big-box grocery store butcher shop. There are no plastic-styrofoam-wrapped meat prisons. Meats here are sourced from the best Texas ranches, hand-selected and tenderly wrapped in waxy butcher's paper.
The Meats on display are a runway show of protein's most glorious delights. Wagyu New York Strip. Filet Mignon. 30 Day Dry Aged Tomahawk. Porterhouse. T-Bones. Tenderloin. Each commands a King's ransom - too much even for my guest-inflated budget.
That's ok.
There are glitches in the meat-matrix known as Butcher's Cuts. These are the less-famous cuts butchers keep for themselves because they're the perfect balance of quality and price. Angus Chuck Eye. Denver Blade. Underblade. Hanger. Picanha. Skirt.
“I'll take...that that and that..aaand some of that.” I inform The Butcher. Seconds pass. I crack under enthusiastic pressure and toss in two Ribeyes for good measure. Returning home now would be the simple and smart thing to do.
I am neither.
Besides, Steak Night is about much more than Steak. I rarely plan Steak Night's menu ahead of time. Higher Incomprehensible Forces offer hints and I listen.
They whisper many things to me. Maybe it's Heirloom-Tomato-Goat-Chevre-Bruschetta on Toasted Sourdough. Maybe it's Golden Potatoes boiled and roasted in a Garlic-Herb-Compound-Butter. Perhaps it’s Lemon-accented Chicken-Bone-Broth-Pesto Jasmine Rice. Maybe it’s a Charcuterie of Morcilla, Lardon, Ibérico, ‘Nduja, Aged Parmesan, English Cheddar and Brie. Maybe its Heirloom Black Beans with Smoked Ham Hock, or Charred Broccolini on a bed of Whipped Ricotta.
Maybe they whisper Mexican Salsa Macha, Jimmy Charles (chimichurri for those in the Know), or it's Black-Garlic-Cabernet-Port-Vinegar variant.
Anything can happen.
This is where things get out of hand. See, some people have problems with porn, drugs and alcohol. I have a boutique grocery store problems. Fortunately (?), this Butcher Shop doubles as a cute and meticulously curated boutique grocery store. Here I am an opposable-thumb-enabled credit-card-financed dog at the treat store.
God help me.
Powerless, things go blurry. In the thin slices of light between bouts of darkness I see my basket fill with goodies like Mushroom Pesto, East Tiger Sourdough, Fresh Buffalo-Milk Cheese, Award-Winning Goat-Chevre, Cabernet-Port Vinegar, obnoxiously bright Heirloom Tomatoes, Heirloom Kidney Beans and Heirloom Carolina Gold Rice. (Heirloom, since you asked, means expensive and better than you.)
I regain consciousness at the check out counter. The cashier notices my eye drift towards the humbly priced pork steaks.
Thinking about more? she asks.
Don't tempt me, witch! I think.
I’m good. I say.
I swipe my credit card. The bill is far more than anticipated…which is what I anticipated. Steak Night, if I were to be true to my inner-most heart-of-hearts, is largely an excuse for me to indulge in boutique culinary degeneracy.
Which is why I charge people.
I used to feel weird about asking Homies for money. However, burning my wallet each Steak Night wouldn't be sustainable. Besides, I've learned people prefer contributing than not contributing. Each person chipping in the price of an overpriced cocktail keeps me in the ballpark of break-even which is enough for me.
Now onto The Wine.
Wine is Steak’s liquid best friend. It’s more elegant then beer, operationally simpler than cocktails, and is a match made in Flavor Heaven. Conveniently, The Wine Shop neighbors The Butcher Shop.
The Wine Shop is perfectly petite. Nothing is here by accident. I monopolize the Wine-Geek-Shop-Manager's attention.
Tonight is Steak Night, I explain. The Manager doesn’t fully recognize the gravity of this statement, which I forgive.
I communicate my desires.
I don't want some overly-bold tannin-heavy Dad-wine. I want to have fun. Get funky. I want to go on a flavor adventure. Wound up by my inquiries, the Manager spins through the store highlighting her favorites.
This wine is blah blah blah! That wine is doo doo do! That wine is dee dee dee!
Pretending I know what she's saying, I select the bottles that bullseye the price, adventure, and enthusiasm matrix - a Piedmontese Barbaresco, a Willamette Valley Pinot, and a curveball Texas High Plains Carbonic Counoise (pronounced: KoonWah, since you asked.). Let it also be said that I am a man of All The Homies - even the sober ones. For them I acquire delightful alcohol-removed Spanish sparkling wine.
Food and Wine secured I return home. The Homies arrive in a few hours. Nothing is prepared, but I'm not stressed. I know what I'm doing.
I walk in the door and the immediately the mantra blares in my head.
Salt The Steak! Salt The Steak! Salt The Steak!
Always Always Always Salt The Steak when you get home.
I pat-dry and rain The Steaks with a Diamond Kosher Salt and freshly cracked Black Peppercorn. The Salt penetrates, softens, extracts moisture, and assists with the juice-locking sear-crust. Once dried, salted, and peppered, I set The Steaks off to the side.
Steak is the easiest part of Steak Night.
…unless of course, it’s not. Maybe I'm feeling frothy and vacuum seal The Steaks in a sous-vide bag with a Compound-Garlic-Herb-Butter infusion and set the water bath at a rare 120°F.
Now the real work begins. I put on an audiobook, likely some deep dark and dense book about Soviet Russia, grow extra limbs and slip into a culinary trance. Cooking ahead of time let’s me be more Host than Chef when The Homies arrive.
I could be doing any number of things. Setting the meez. Chopping and caramelizing Onions. Slicing Peppers. Defrosting Bone Broth. Trashing scraps. Tearing dried Mexican Chilis. Wiping the counter. Smashing Spices. Toasting Seeds and Nuts. Mandolining Carrots. Boiling Potatoes. Cleaning. Soaking Rice. Picking Parsley. Grating Ginger. Smashing Garlic. Cleaning some more. Blending sauces. Buzzing Ricotta. Grating and squeezing lemons. Tasting and flavor editing for perfection.
I lose track of time. Hours pass. The Homies arrive soon. I scrap my overly optimistic gym plans, shower, finish food prep, don my tan-blazer-graphic-tee combo and get the house ready.
To the corner go my electronics. Dim go the lights. On goes the vibey-jazzy-hip-hoppy-loungey-cozy-dinner-party beats.
Steak Night is late enough to shift from work to evening energy, yet early enough to not disrupt adulty sleep patterns.
According to the time, Steak Night has technically begun, but nobody, than maybe Eric, shows up on time. That's fine. There's no strict start time. Homies come when they can and leave when they want.
I never know exactly who will come. The Higher Incomprehensible Forces that be don’t give me much time to organize Steak Night. This is fine. Short time windows optimize for randomness, spontaneity and the intimate amount of Homies my cozy house can fit.
I flash The Steak Night beacon into the Homiesphere and see who bites. Invariably, Steak Night is a random cross pollination of Old Homies, New Homies, Last Minute Plus Ones minus Last Minute Drop Outs from all corners of the Homiesphere.
The Homies trickle in - slowly, and then quickly. Unsurprisingly, Homies bring surprises.
Imran brings mezcal. Eric, Artisanal Cheeses. Seth, Tequila. Wyn, Gin. Jada, Cabernet Sauvignon (and extra glasses). Hannah, Pet-Nat. Jake, homemade Chicken-Liver-Paté and more Cheeses. Hutch, Pickled Red Onions and Black Garlic for the Jimmy Charles. Meg, Buttered Sweet Potato Cake. Lauren, secretly paranoid of Steak running out, brings more Steak. Dani, Steak in human form, brings herself.
Steak Night is a co-created experience.
Everyone gets a drink. Booze Homies start with Hannah’s fizzy Pét-nat. Non boozers get Fizzy Water or the Booze-Removed Spanish Wine. Homies nibble on Eric’s Cheeses and Jake’s Paté.
The Homies are pleased.
My once quiet living-room-kitchen is abuzz in conversation and groovy beats. Unbound by the strict confines of a restaurant table, people fluidly mix, mingle, chit and chatter at their whim.
Time passes. The first course is ready. Stuff-on-Toasted-Sourdough is my go-to starter. Minimal prep. Simple presentation. This time it's the Pizza-like Heirloom-Tomato-Chevre-Balsamic-Bruschetta variant. Once toasted, I slide the Bruschetta onto the thick burgundy striped wooden Cutting Board and chop it into bite sized potions.
We use plates and utensils when they make sense, but I prefer hand-food like this. Less trouble. More intimacy. This won’t be the last hand-eaten food.
People take their bite. Call me arrogant, but I’ve perfected this dish. The Bruschetta is hot, crunchy, acidic, sweet, vegetal, creamy and garlicky. The reactions are predictable.
The Homies curse and grunt in delightful amusement.
Elementary, Watson.
All till now has been foreplay.
Steak is the easiest part of Steak Night. The Steaks are room-temp. The Salt has had hours to work it's magic. I give The Steaks one final pat-down and sneak outside. Some Homies follow. The grill is scraped and hot. Very hot.
My hand finds the hot-hot part of the grill. On go The Steaks.
TSSSSSSSSSSS!!! My linguistic capacity devolves to primal grunts.
UHHHH!!!! OOOHHH!!!
My thin attachment to civility is contained in the surprisingly wonderful Carbonic Counoise swirling around my glass.
Sssssssiiiip.
Time passes. I flip The Steaks.
Flames flare. I am the conductor of this terrifyingly primal Sizzle Symphony.
TTTTSSSSSSSSSSS!!!
OOOOOHHHH!!! AAAAAAHHHH!!!
Time passes. I touchy-touch and pokey-poke The Steaks until I feel the right amount of bounce. Once ready I plate and return to the festivities.
A hush befalls The Homies. Noses flare. Eyes bulge. I slide The Steaks onto The Cutting Board where they rest. Steak must rest so the juices don't run away. Never slice early. I grab my oversized Japanese Steel Chinese Cleaver - insinuating drastic consequences for those who disrupt the process.
Time passes. The Steaks are rested. The Steaks are ready.
The Ceremony begins. This is what the Higher Incomprehensible Forces commanded, what I toiled for, and why The Homies convened.
Tonight’s is the night. It has to happen. Must happen.
Steak Night begins.
I carefully inspect The Steaks for grain direction. Cutting with-the-grain means a stubbornly tough chew. Against-the-grain cuts ensure perfectly soft chewability. Always cut against the grain.
I begin what must be done. Forces inhabit my body and guide my hand. I black in and out of consciousness as The Cleaver, majestic in form and terrifying in strength glides through The Steaks with devastating precision.
The Homies, having lost all basic linguistic capacities, grunt and glare.
AAAUUUGHHH!!! UUUUGGGHHHHH!!!
Slices reveal the well marbled reds and pinks I seek. Perfect cuts splay across The Cutting Board. It’s borderline pornographic. I fend off overly enthusiastic hands so I can apply the Final Touch - a flaky Maldon Sea Salt. These tiny pyramidal structures are the beacons that light this steaky flavor tower.
I give the signal. The thin pretentions of our modernist civilities fade. Hands swarm like piranhas. The Homies grunt and moan. Eyes roll back. Even me, despite having done this many times, am floored. The Steak is a soft sensual and salty umami bomb.
UUUUGGGGHHHH!!! AWWWMAAAGAAAD!!! MMMMMM!!!
I sip on my Barbaresco and laugh mischievously. There is more. Steak is perfect as is. It needs no elevation. But in my admirably delusional folly I seek that which should not be sought.
The first elevation is Steak paired with the Mexican Salsa Macha - a spicy and spiced Category 5 sweet and sour hurricane of Spices, Nuts and Chilis. One taste stirs wonder, awe, and confusion. This is a flavor destination reached by few.
Next is a bold variant of the Argentinian classic, Chimichurri (Jimmy Charles). Mine is fortified by Black-Garlic-Cabernet-Port-Vinegar. It is a pairing both strange, familiar, but delectably ethereal. It’s gently sweet herbaceous acidity is an elegant juxtaposition of textures and flavors.
Side dishes enter the picture. Pesto Bone-Broth-Jasmine-Rice and/or Garlic-Herb-Compound-Butter Roasted Golden Potatoes are worthy companions.
But we are not done. I introduce The Final Elevation - Balsamic Vinegar. Mind you, this isn't the sad watery liquid you find at your ordinary store. Oh no. The Balsamic I speak of, sourced only from millennia-aged villages in Modena, Italy, is a sweetly acidic and syrupy portal into an alternate flavor dimensions. It is the 5-MeO-DMT of condiments.
Each of us takes a Balsamically micro-dosed Steak. We bite. Taste buds activate in ways they’ve never been activated. A fissure ruptures the mind-body-consciousness connection. Our souls merge and we ascend the elevator to the untouched peak of Flavor Mountain.
Here we experience a moment eclipse-like in it's perfection and ephemerality. In this brief slice of time all is right in the world. The music sounds right. The smells and tastes, intoxicating. The Homies radiate love and excitement. Higher Mysterious Forces signal their pleasure.
From here, all life is bonus. I've done my part.
A tiny eternity passes. The flavors recede. We descend to reality. Steak Night is not done. Far from it. This is merely the first of many peaks to come.
The munching, sipping, bantering and vibing resume. More waves of Steak are grilled, sliced, drizzled and elevated until The Homies can't take anymore.
We almost forget desert. Extra belly space opens up. Maybe we finish with Nina's Burnt Basque Cheesecake, Meg's Sweet Potato Pie or the Chocolate Raspberry Cake Imran and Bhagya picked up.
The perfect finale.
I start cleaning. Dani interrupts and kicks me out of the kitchen. More Homies join the cleanup. I relent and shift from host to guest.
The buzz lightens. The lights dim. The kitchen regains it’s sparkle. Homies offer hugs goodbye. Tonight, old connections deepened. New ones formed. Taste buds escalated new heights.
Tonight was Steak Night. Had to happen. And it’s going to happen again and again and again.