The Cow And I

Judge This!

I'm now back in Chicago, after a glorious long weekend spent in the company of our Most Esteemed Adjudicator. I have to reiterate what a fine choice we made in selecting Him for the job. His wisdom is timeless. I was able to enjoy, firsthand, His most objective decisions, some of which were in my favor. I'll explain shortly.

I can't possibly go through all the meals in detail over this entry. Such an endeavor would be overkill, much like the many, perhaps too many cows slaughtered for my pleasure that weekend.

I did have a chance to taste meat from Guy's bloodthirsty raw perspective. This tartare tasted great. But I have to admit, I enjoyed it only because it was bathed in spices and oozed a tangy slug-trail down my throat.

This restaurant we were in one night was so dark I couldn't tell, at first, if I was really eating beef. I looked at Max suspiciously for a moment, but then realized that He would NEVER EVER stoop so low as to arrange for a switcheroo on me. And, sure enough, my first taste of it confirmed its unadulterated bovine composition:

Now to the issue of Max's judgment. While perusing the menu at one of His favorite breakfast diners, I recalled the ruling that Gyros isn't beef, as it consists many times of parts beef and lamb. So, it was to my surprise when I observed a number of items that appeared to contradict this notion. "Chicken Gyro". "Lamb Gyro". And, in plain, clear engrish: "Beef Gyro". Surprise indeed:

So, Max, what's the verdict?

I don't read sign language, but I'm pretty sure He indicated it was, in fact, beef. You win some, you lose some. That one went my way, I am happy to announce. Even if it was a pitiful few ounces.

One day we happened upon a street vendor's flaming beef rack, and I tried to haggle with the proprietor for a discount on the flank steak.

Come here, you gotta see this stuff up close.

In the end, he wouldn't budge on price. But I don't care. This beef, in my opinion, was the best stuff I had all weekend. It was marvelous, all smoky and smothered in plantains.

One night we left Manhattan and ventured out to Queens, where we found a quaint little Argentinian restaurant in the heart of Little India. These folks had meat in all shapes and sizes. The tongue was magnificent, but a little skimpy in size.

Max enjoyed the Mixed Grill, stacked high with blood sausage, sweetbreads, etc. I had some of the non-porcine elements. I have to say, some of that stuff looked like deep-fried puke.

Not my beef, though. It was stark raving gorgeous.

Our last meal (breakfast) was in the company of one of Max's friends, a professional photographer. He skillfully arranged this steak-n-eggs plate for a well-proportioned, ad-worthy photo. But you know, this meat looks so good it sells itself.

Thanks, Max, for a great, beefy trip.

Posted by eric at May 24, 2004 12:18 PM