The Steak Shakes

“You boys like steak?”
This was the question that came out of the mouth of a true Southern fellow that I had the pleasure of meeting yesterday. Out of context it seems like an odd question…hell, even in context it is an odd question. Let me paint some back-story for you.

I’m standing in the office that I work at, catching a breather from a busier morning than expected. The other guy that I work with is sitting at the computer entering some data, and all seems to be right with the world at the moment. Just then, the door to the hallway that connects our office to one next-door opens. A gentleman with a Tennessee Vols t-shirt, dark blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a hat proclaiming how he is Southern by the grace of God enters. He looks a little lost. Is he looking for the computer guys next door? Is he here to see us? He notices our open door and enters. I turn to him in an expectable way so that he knows I am ready to help him. Instead he looks at me and my co-worker, smiles in a big knowing way, and asks us “You boys like steak?”

This is a question that I did not expect. “Do you guys rent cars?” is a question that I suppose I should expect at a rental car place. “Where’s the computer guys?” would have been acceptable. “Which one of you kilt my pa?” is even in the realm of possibility. But asking us if we, two red-blooded American carnivores, like steak is unfathomable. My mind reeled. I felt like reaching out and slapping him. “Uh……….yeah.” I replied. Here’s the conversation that ensued.

Steak Man: “Ya’ll wanna buy some steak?”
Me: “No, thank you. I’m good.”
Steak Man: “Ya sure? It’s black angus.”
Me: “Yeah, I’m all set. Thanks.

Now normally I wouldn’t turn down steak. But, this guy is selling them door-to-door out of the back of a pick-up truck. This is not meat that I trust. I don’t want to purchase a $2.50 steak from a guy I’ll never see again and find out the hard way that it’s laced with crack or arsenic. So the guy leaves a little dejected…and sits in his truck in the parking lot.

Now I’m not against steak. I love steak. There is no other animal that I would rather eat than cow. When I pass a cow I don’t see a friendly bovine…I see an animal that wants to die. They look at you with those big eyes, and those eyes say, “Kill me, please. I don’t wanna live. I’m tired of chewing this grass. You know I’m gonna be tasty.” And this is the problem. Fifteen minutes pass by and I find myself wishing I had a steak. Steak is all I can think about. The guy is still in the parking lot, sending out his steaky vibes, and I am in the office sweating like Robert Downy Jr. in rehab thinking about a juicy Porterhouse cooked medium. My stomach is begging me to run out into the parking lot and buy every piece of cow the guy’s got and cook it with my Zippo.

I got it bad. The steak shakes. The overwhelming need to consume some beef that has been cooked over an open flame. The only thing that saves me is the guy gets tired of waiting for me to come out and pulls out of the parking lot. I am opening the door and walking after him before I know what I am doing. He doesn’t stop, and in hindsight I am glad. I realize that I have a problem. I need help.

So after work I am sitting in front of a NY Strip (cooked medium) and everything again seems right with the word. It’s amazing what kind of healing properties that a hot…juicy…flavorful……..

Gotta go. Hungry now.