Better Than Miss Nancy’s

Steak. Porterhouse. Medium rare. 

Potato. Baked. Butter. Sour cream. Chives. Bacon bits. Cheese. 

Dinner roll. Yeast. Garlic butter. 

Iced tea. Unsweet. 

I knew my father’s favorite meal by heart. When I was a kid, any time we went to dinner at his favorite place, he always ordered the same exact meal the same exact way. 

“You remember when we would go eat at Miss Nancy’s Diner after church on Sunday?”

“Yeah, Pop. How could I forget?”

“You remember what I got there?”

“I remember that, too.”

“Best meal I’ve ever eaten. By a long shot. That porterhouse was the most tender steak anywhere.”

“You would never even let me have a bite.”

He always laughed a little when I reminded him of how stingy he was. 

“It’s been years since I had a steak that good. That restaurant was the best.”

I nodded, not so much in agreement as in nostalgic wonder. 

“It’s a shame Miss Nancy had to close her diner,” I said. 

“Yeah, it is. I miss that place.”

“Me too. It was always our Sunday place. Almost like home.”

He was staring out the window when he asked me a question that I’ll never forget. 

“Will you make it for me?”

I was undoubtedly caught off guard by his question. 

“What? Make you, what, a porterhouse?” I asked, quite uncertain if he was actually asking me that. 

“Sure. Porterhouse, baked potato, the works.” I could tell he was uncomfortable asking. “Will you?”

My father had never once asked me to cook for him before. In all my years, he had never asked me for much of anything, honestly. I was shocked to say the least. 

“I mean, I’m sure I can cook a porterhouse, but I don’t think I’ll make it like Miss Nancy did.”

He nodded.  “You’re right. It’ll be better.”

My father was not one to compliment anyone, especially not me. 

“Well, I mean...Sure, Pop. I’ll make you a porterhouse.”

“With a baked potato and a yeast roll? And some tea?”

“Unsweet, right?”

“Of course. Sugar ruins the flavor.”

He wasn’t wrong. Years ago, I would have disagreed with him and dumped about a cup of sugar into my glass. As I got older, I realized that, like so many other things I used to disagree with him about, dad was right more often than he was wrong. 

“I’ll do that,” I replied, still in shock. 

I was hungry, though, and I could always go for a steak, even if it was one I made. “You hungry now, Pop?”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “I can already taste it.”

He slowly made his way to the counter and leaned over holding himself up. 

“You sure you’ll be alright for a while while I run to the store?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ll go lie down until you get back. Be careful.”

“I will, Pop. Take it easy.”

Finding a porterhouse in this small town wouldn’t be easy. Ok, it would be impossible. The only market we had never carried them. But I had to try. My father wanted me to make him one. And I didn’t want to let him down. 

I browsed the meat counter, and, as I suspected, no porterhouse to be found. 

“I have a T-bone steak. It’s as close to a porterhouse as I have.”

“Can someone tell the difference if I tell them it’s a small porterhouse?”

The butcher laughed at me. “I’ll tell you what. You take this big one here, and as long as you cook it right, it’ll taste just like a porterhouse.”

My culinary skills weren’t the best, but they weren’t the worst either, so I felt up to the challenge. I took the biggest T-bone and another smaller one for myself. I rounded up a couple of big baking potatoes along with some flour and yeast for the yeast rolls. Luckily, the garlic butter was already made, so that saved me one step. A box of tea and a bag of ice, and I was on my way home. 

Dad was asleep when I got there. I closed the bedroom door quietly and got to work. I fired up the oven and lightly greased a cast iron skillet for the steaks. I seasoned the T-bone exactly like the porterhouse recipe I found on my phone suggested. The rolls would take the longest, so I set to work on them. The dough actually looked almost exactly like the picture when I finished. I let it rest and went to the tea pot. I boiled the water and set the pitcher aside with the bags for a quick steep. Five minutes according to the box. 

Once the potatoes and rolls were in the oven, I could focus on the steaks. I knew Miss Nancy cooked hers on a cast iron skillet, so I did the same. Google told me six to eight minutes for a perfect medium rare for steaks this size, so I did exactly that. It was actually quite a good looking pair of steaks when I set them on the plate. I was proud of myself for making it at least look good. Time would tell if it actually was good. 

I heard the bedroom door creak open as I put the finishing touches on the baked potatoes. 

“Did I wake you up, Pop?”

“Oh no. But the smell of that steak sure did.”

He seemed a little slouched over, so I pulled out his chair at the table. 

“Just stiff from laying down.” He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and smiled. I hadn’t seen him smile like that in quite a while. “Smells just like Miss Nancy’s in here.”

He sat down at the table and looked weaker than he did earlier. 

“You sure you’re ok?”

“Hungry. Just hungry. I get shaky when my sugar is low.”

“Then let’s get some food in you.”

I set the plate down in front of him and went to get some tea. When I turned around, he was cutting into his steak. 

“Well?”

“No, not well. Looks medium rare to me, son.”

“That’s not...hey.”

We both laughed. His dad jokes were always well timed. 

“This looks delicious. I wish…” his voice trailed off with his stare. 

“What is it?”

“I wish your mother was here. God, I miss her.”

“I do too, Pop. You know what she’d have said just now?”

“Say grace before you cut that steak, Joseph.”

We both laughed together again and said grace just like we did every meal when I was a kid. 

He slid the piece he cut earlier into his mouth. I waited for his verdict. He only grinned as he cut another piece. 

We ate in relative silence, not because we didn’t have anything to walk about, but because he seemed to be enjoying his steak so much that I didn’t want to disturb him. 

He’d only eaten half of what I plated for him before he pushed his plate away. 

“What’s wrong?” I was afraid he’d realized it wasn’t actually a porterhouse. 

“Nothing. Not a thing. That was,” he said, pushing for a moment. “That was the best steak I’ve ever tasted.”

Maybe he hadn’t noticed after all. 

“Then why didn’t you eat it all?”

“I can’t eat as much anymore. Not since my treatments started.”

“Yeah, Pop. I hear you.”  

I took his plate and let him finish his tea. The leftovers were boxed up and in the fridge when he got up from the table. 

“I think I’ll go to bed now.”

“Ok.”

He walked slowly towards his room. He stopped at the door and turned to me. 

“Will you sit with me until I fall asleep?”

Another odd request, one he’d never made before either. 

“Sure, Pop.” I couldn’t say no. 

I went and sat beside him, just like he asked, as he closed his eyes. I had a feeling we wouldn’t have many more nights like this one. I just didn’t know this one was going to be the last real night we spent together. 

Dad slipped into a coma as he slept that night. The cancer finally caught up to him. We both knew his time was getting short, so it wasn’t a real surprise when the doctor said he’d likely never come out of the coma. And he didn’t. He died three days later with me by his bedside. I buried him next to mom. 

I still remember that last meal, the only meal I’d ever made for him. Every detail is seared in my memory now. Every time I make a steak, I think of him and that last meal we shared. It may have been his favorite meal, but I had no idea how much it came to mean to me. No meal will ever compare to that one. 

I’ll also never forget some of the last words we shared that night as he drifted off to start his journey to be with mom.

“Son, that was the best steak I’ve ever tasted. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome. Better than Miss Nancy’s, though?”

“Much.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“No, son. Thank you. I love you, you know that, right?

“Of course. Love you too, Pop. Get you some rest.”

“I will.” 

He laid quietly for a minute or two before speaking up again. 

“There’s just one more thing.”

“What’s that, Pop?”

He cleared his throat. “I never knew a T-bone could taste better than a porterhouse.”