I ate a complete porterhouse beef steak, plainly salted, peppered with cracked black peppercorns, charred on the outside and rare on the inside with no sauce—just that big, beautiful, Nebraska grain-fed, one-inch-thick combination NY strip and filet mignon still on the bone. With it I had a big Idaho baked potato, filled with butter, creme fraiche, strips of crispy bacon crumbled into it in lieu of salt, a load of chives and more black pepper on top. On the side, I had some big, beautiful, thickly sliced, portobello mushrooms sauteed in red wine. To compliment every bite of the steak, I took a sip of Italian Sangiovese table wine. Mmmmm. Heaven.
It took the whole bottle and a couple of hours to eat that meal and for dessert, I had one of the most interesting conversations I’ve ever had with my table mate. I slept like a baby last night and I feel great today, like superman. It’s been since last November since I’ve had anything but chicken, lamb, pork and goat. And at least a year before that. I have been dreaming about steaks for the past couple of months. And last night, my dream came true.