My Ribeye

“My Ribeye”

    “Robert, Robert, have you been here before?” Marci asked. “Robert?”

    I looked at Marci and nodded.

    Marci is the PTA president, condo board member of our community, PETA advocate, Girl Scout den mother and lead attention seeker of my wife’s group of friends. She organized this current outing of four couples and the only reason I agreed to attend is because it is at my favorite steak house. And because my wife Kristin asked me to attend, which is pretty much the same as her telling me to attend.

    Earlier this week I had been informed by Kristin that I needed to increase my circle of friends. A fact that I was not aware of. 

    “We’re going to meet the McKlusky’s and two other couples for dinner Saturday night,” she said.

    “What, wait, who? Why,” I asked? “You know McKlusky’s annoy the hell out of me.”

    “Marci isn’t that bad. You can be nice to her for one evening,” she said.

    “Not that bad? She cornered me at the Quinn’s Fourth of July party and couldn’t stop talking about the earwig that got caught in the compressor of her air conditioner and shorted out the system.”

    “Is that such an awful story?”

    “She took the earwig to the vet to see if they could revive it.”

    “Well, she is an animal lover.”

    “An earwig is a bug not an animal.”

    “Ok, she can be a bit of a handful at times, but you like Henry.”

    “Now you’re just making shit up.”

    “What? What’s wrong with Henry?

    “He’s an empty suit, when he speaks, which thankfully isn’t that often, all he does is mumble. I’d rather listen to bug resurrection stories.”

    “Now you’re exaggerating.”

    I stood with my fists firmly planted on my hips, feet shoulder width apart, chin raised ever so slightly, giving her my best superman pose. Despite being clad in Star Wars boxer shorts, a wife beater tank top and black socks, I felt that my pose exuded the defiant stance and necessary demeanor that would convince her to reconsider our attendance at this painful dinner engagement.

    I was wrong. I exhaled and let my hands fall to my sides.

    “Who are these two other couples?” I asked.

    “The Lowell’s and the Drogy’s.”

    “The Lowell’s? Is the wife that one from the bake sale with the lazy eye and the limp who carries a rabbit around in her purse?”

    “No, you’re thinking of Erin Landwehr. And that is her emotional support Guinea Pig.”

    “Just because you can strap a red vest on it doesn’t make it a service animal,” I said.

    “You don’t know the Lowell’s or the Drogy’s,” she said.

    “Do I really need to know them? I’m not really feeling like I need to know them.”

    “It would do you some good to expand your circle of friends.”

    “Is this really necessary? I already have four small circles of friends,” I said. “I have work friends, neighbor friends, golf friends and old college buddy friends. Each is a distinct group, a world onto itself. Each meets my needs in their own special way. These circles really need to be kept small, separate and distinct.”

    Kristin looked up from the book she was reading but remained silent. She just stared at me as if to say, that can’t possibly be your only argument against attending this social event, could it?

    I continued explaining my worlds theory, hoping she would come to her senses.

    “These circles are worlds and these worlds are delicately balanced,” I said. “The addition of another circle could cause anarchy if they were to expand, collide or come into contact with each…”

    “Cut the crap Rob,” Kristin said. “This isn’t a Seinfeld episode, you aren’t George Costanza, worlds aren’t going to collide, and nothing bad is going to happen if we go out and meet some new people.”

    I love my wife and I am happy that she appreciates all the same pop culture references that I do. The fact that we speak the same nomenclature makes for a happy marriage, but sometimes I’m left without a foot to stand on when I want to use some of that nomenclature in an argument.

    “Robert, Robert, have you been here before?” Marci asked. “Robert?”

    Marci was repeating the question that I had responded to with a nod. I thought that my simple nod of affirmation would both satisfy Marci’s question and non-verbally signal to her that I’d rather not engage her in further conversation, but, I was wrong.

    “Yes, yes I have.”

    “Robert, Robert, the owner of this restaurant flies the cows in from Argentina. They have the best beef there. Bife de Chorizo is the way you say it in Espanola.”

    Marci did her best Spanish accent when she said the words Argentina, Bife de Chorizo and Espanola. I wondered if she put on her best Chinese accent when she orders the Lo Mein at P.F. Chang's.

    Marci’s second comment was not technically a question. At least, not in a grammatically correct way, but she had used voice inflection and a head tilt, along with unsettling eye contact. This was an indication that the person she was talking to needed to respond verbally as if she had asked a question.

    “Oh really,” I said.

    This time I added a combination head tilt and nod with my response. Since I was not at all interested in engaging her in conversation I felt that by combining the head tilt with the nod, along with an enthusiastic verbal response in which I put the emphasis on the “Oh” rather than the “really” it would indicate that I was impressed with her knowledge of Argentine beef as well as her bilingual-ness which would convey a genuine interest in what she was saying thus satisfying her need to engage me in further conversation and ending our interaction freeing her to annoy someone else with her seemingly misinformed and grammatically as well as syntactically incorrect comments.

    I was wrong.

    “Robert, Robert this restaurant was …”

    “Would you excuse me, I need to go see a man about a horse,” I said.

    Marci stopped mid-sentence as I got up from the table and made my way to the restroom. As I walked away, the sound of Marci’s voice could be heard through the crowd noise as she said Kristin’s name twice before assaulting her with the conversational shrapnel that was intended for me.

    The plan upon returning from the restroom was to hide amongst the group and not have to engage anyone in conversation. But Marci was calling my name as soon as I sat down.

    “Robert, Robert this restaurant was voted best steak house on Long Island. Did you know that Robert,” she paused, “Robert?”

    Looking at Marci, I once again gave her the head tilt with a nod combo, but this time I added the dual eye brow raise. I thought for sure that this time my nonverbal expression would satisfy her need to communicate with me.

    My wife took my hand under the table and gave it a prolonged squeeze, not as a sign of affection for her loving husband but as a warning to be nice to Marci. Despite my nonverbal indicators of agreement, Marci was staring, apparently waiting for a verbal response. My wife squeezed my hand a little harder.

    “Yes, I was aware of that,” I said. “Try the veal it’s the best in the city.” I leaned toward my wife and added in a whisper, “I’m going to speak Italian to Michael.”

    This earned me a pinch on the thigh.

    “You’re not making your bones tonight,” my wife whispered back to me through a toothy grin.

    My veal recommendation prompted Marci’s demeanor to change from joyful ring leader to irritated activist. Apparently, it is ok for PETA advocates to eat beef from steroid infused cows, tilapia from fish farms and antibiotic laden chicken but young cows are off limits.

    “Good evening everyone, my name is Tomas and I will be your server tonight.”

    My wife sighed with relief as our server interrupted my conversation with Marci. Tomas wore his hair Gordon Gekko style, slicked back and wet. He had a pencil thin mustache and spoke with a slight accent that was hard to place. I thought to ask Marci if Tomas had flown in from Argentina with the cows but I thought better of it. He wore a black tuxedo jacket and bow tie. Around his waist like a cummerbund was a white apron that went down to the floor. He carried eight menus, each the size of a ten-commandment tablet.

    As Tomas rattled off the dinner specials my mind drifted. I did not need to hear the specials, I did not need a menu, and as far as I was concerned, there was only one thing that should be eaten at this restaurant. And that was my beloved, bone-in ribeye.

    I have never been inside the kitchen of this establishment but my mind began to wander into a day dream about the chain reaction of events that would occur as soon as a ribeye order was placed.

    Upon entering the kitchen with the order, Tomas would slap a red button. A siren, like the dive alarm of an Ohio-class nuclear powered ballistic missile submarine submerging, would echo throughout the room. At that moment all non-ribeye activity would cease as a team of experts would spring into action. Furious debates would erupt between James Beard award winning chefs over which cut of ribeye would be selected. Marbling, size, color and the bone density of each slice of ribeye would be considered, measured and scrutinized until finally a cut was selected. It would then be seared to perfection under the supervision of not only the country’s top chefs but by a rabbi, a priest, a minister, a monk, the local congressman and an old Italian grandmother. The steak would be cooked to a perfect medium rare than placed on a simple white plate and left to rest in a hermetically sealed room being guarded by a SWAT team until it was time to be served.

    I spent the next part of the evening dodging conversations and avoiding eye contact with Marci. My focus was on preparing for the arrival of my precious ribeye.

    Finally, after the remnants of appetizers and house salads were cleared from the table, I spotted Tomas exiting the kitchen with a tray the size of a flattened pitcher’s mound. I caught a glimpse of my beloved ribeye. It rested on an alabaster plate. Surrounding my ribeye were seven other plates. On those plates were an assortment of fish and fowl and lesser meats, none worthy of being on the same table as my ribeye.

   Tomas slowly made his way through the crowded dining room. He carried the tray as carefully as a quartet of peasants shouldering a Pharaoh in a sedan chair through the congested streets of Egypt. As the ribeye approached our table, it sang. The sizzle was like a siren’s song that called out to us.

   When it was placed in front of me, I caught its scent. An aroma that drifted into my nose and down the back of my throat. My mouth watered at the sight, sound and smell of this 40-ounce slab of bovine goodness. The table conversation became background noise as I focused on my steak.

    Then I thought I heard someone say something about sharing our meals. I looked up and stared directly into Marci’s eyes. Did Marci just suggest I give up a piece of my ribeye? I looked down at her plate. There seemed to be some sort of fish fillet swimming around in a gelatinous mucosal like white sauce. It’s aroma undoubtably the fragrance of the salt marsh in Gilgo State Park during low tide of a hot, humid August day.

    There was only one seat in between Marci and me. It was occupied by Marci’s husband, a dainty man who ordered a dainty piece of filet mignon. She was helping herself to a slice of his steak before he even had a chance to mumble an objection. I knew I would be next. I looked at my beloved ribeye. I looked at Marci. I looked at the oversized steak knife in my hand. I could not let this happen.

    Marci extended her hand toward my plate. It looked like she was saying my name over and over again but my heart was pounding so hard that my ears could not hear her words.

    Her hand came closer to my plate. I grabbed her arm with my left hand, pulled her over the table toward me and plunged the Rambo sized steak knife into her throat. A shocked look came over her face as blood squirted out of her neck. I released her, grabbed my ribeye by the bone and made a dash for the exit. I kicked open the emergency exit door at the back of the restaurant and made my way down an alley all while taking bites out of my ribeye. I ran as far and as fast as I could until I came upon a park bench where I collapsed in exhaustion. After consuming the remainder of my beloved ribeye on the park bench, I curled into the fetal position and suckled the bone. I dozed off to sleep the sleep of the just.

    I awoke surrounded by the restaurant patrons, the restaurant staff including the rabbi, priest, minister, monk, congressman, my wife, Henry McCluskey, the Lowell’s, the Drogy’s, the SWAT team and even a guy who looked like Denzel Washington wearing a white uniform. A news crew was already on the scene. I sat up, spit out the bone of my ribeye and braced myself for the wrath of an angry mob.

    They all seemed to lunge at me at once but instead of beating me to death they hoisted me atop their shoulders and paraded me around cheering. A news woman extended a microphone towards me and began asking me questions as the crowd chanted my name.

    “Have you always been against food sharing?” She asked.

    “Well, I always believed that one should have the right to choose whether one shares one’s food or …,”

    “So, you’re not pro share?” She asked.

    “Well, no, I…”

    “So, you’re pro-choice,” she said.

    “Well, yes, I guess, no, I…”

    “Would you also kill for poultry or fish? Or is it just the red meats?” She asked.

    “My intent wasn’t really to kill so much as it was to...”

    “Where do you stand on the vegan question?” She asked.

    “There’s a vegan question?”

    The crowd was growing bigger. I saw my future flash before my eyes. I saw the news headlines; Hero Carnivore Saves Ribeye from Unwanted Food Sharer. There would be a book written followed by a blockbuster movie. I would be on every talk show, women would throw themselves at me, men would want to be me, and children would want to play the video game based on that faithful night that I took a stand against food sharing.

    The crowd continued to shout my name. Then I felt something pinching my leg. The chanting became softer and softer until it was just one person calling my name. Everything started to get hazy, and suddenly I was back at the restaurant, sitting in front of my ribeye. My wife was now pinching my leg with both hands and Marci was saying my name over and over again as she reached for my ribeye.

    Marci now had her hand on my plate, she was so close that I could smell her perfume. The stench assaulted my nostrils and tickled the hairs inside my nose. A vile smell that overpowered my sinuses causing me to sneeze the wettest, sloppiest, most mucus filled sneeze of my life. Instead of turning away from the table or covering my face, I let loose on my beloved ribeye. Snot gushed out of my nose and mouth like a blast from a fire fighter’s hose. My ribeye looked like an Asian girl at the end of a bukkake film.

    Marci withdrew her hand.

    From this day forward, I would never be asked to share food.