The perfect steak is medium rare
Barbaric and sexual, moist and forgiving
Its caramelised skin and soft pink interior
Its salty crunch and earthy, primal bite
The flesh melting in the mouth
The juices gliding down the throat softly
Washed down with a good red wine
And a sauce made from blood and butter
When I come to trial
And they put me in the chair
I will tell them two things
That God forgives me
And that the perfect steak
Is medium rare.
Nice one Stu. I can feel my taste buds stirring, are you sure you haven't returned to cooking?
its rare to find
a happy medium
and if you do
then well done
Stu, when I was twenty, in my first apartment, my dad came for dinner. I was so excited. I cooked for him an expensive steak, way beyond my meagre budget. But this occasion was SPECIAL.
I read my book/s, prepared my meat verbatim, seared it hawk-eyed, dressed it with artistic panache, served it with pride and stood respectfully back for high praise. He scored it deeply with his steak knife, and drew abruptly back with a sharp ejaculation: 'JESUS, Cynthia, I said I liked it RARE, NOT STILL ON THE HOOF!'
Ah, the richness of the best memories. I have no idea what happened next. Presumably, I cooked it some more. I envy people who can afford fine rich steaks.
what searing humour! a rarity nowadays. etc
thanks for the comment, im glad you enjoyed the poem!
Not a poem that will be a hit with vegetarians, but very appetising for the rest of us! Would it be pushing a pun too too far to say "Well done!"?
He who sups with the devil must needs have a long spoon.! As we say in the music business, this poem was really cooking.
Ray
thanks both! i once worked out i must have cooked over 5000 steaks in my life so far and every one that wasn't medium rare made me shiver! funny, this started out as a love affair to the steak and ended up as a love letter to cannibalism.
There's more than a little "I ate his liver, washed down with a nice Chianti" about this piece Stu, reinforced by the hypothetical execution at the end.
Mouthwatering and Chilling
My kind of poem Stu - and shows how versatile you are.
I don't eat red meat, but your description delights me nevertheless. The sexual frisson is a nice addition, and maybe there is a closeness in the psyche . I think the word barbaric has hit the spot in its rawness.
Funnily enough I'm just chiming with the meat sentiment with my latest. Read all about it!!
ray
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Stu Buck
Wed 18th Nov 2015 08:52
actually, the longer i stay away from professional kitchens the more i fall back in love with food in general. i think the same can be said for most careers. they sap the joy from whatever it was you once loved (usually the reason you entered the career in the first place). glad you liked the poem! the worst thing about the wife being pregnant is that i promised i wouldn't eat a steak until she could!