Steak!

OK, first of all there should be a name for people who have blogs and stop writing for them because they are being lame. A name like “moog” or something. A quick scan of Urban Dictionary tells me that I did not coin this phrase, but I see no harm in repurposing it for self-criticism.

I’ve turned into a total moog. My love life has been exciting and complicated as of late (thanks, in part to The Noah and Gavin Matchmaking Company.com) which has been cool but also a little stressful. And since everything is so tenuous I feel as though I can’t write about it as candidly as I usually do.

So I must resort to writing about steak. I had my first real steak-eating experience the other night. I’ve tasted steak maybe five times in my life, but before last Sunday I’d never ordered and consumed an entire cut of steak by myself. Weird, huh? Well, not if you consider the family I grew up in and my seven-year stint as a cheese-itarian.

But I work in a restaurant that specializes in the classic French café dish Steak Frites au Poivre (steak and french fries with a pepper jus) and it is available to me any night I work for about $5.

The steak itself, a flat iron from the shoulder region of the cow, was good, of course. But the best part of the meal was the slightly salty champagne vinaigrette on the mixed greens I had instead of frites, and dipping baguette in the rich, peppery sauce.

I’ve always thought women who order steak were a little weird. I mean, it’s never seemed very ladylike to me in the past. But I learned something about steak that night … it’s just food and it’s just good.

But hippie ideals stick to your ribs just as easily as beef, and now I feel guilty…