The Cow And I

At Last We Meat

Last night, it finally happened.

It was a long time coming. Indeed, Guy and I have discussed the idea of a BeefStakes summit ever since January. After all those long months of dining alone, eating meat in the remotest corners of the globe, we finally had the opportunity to share a meal face to face. Knife to knife. Fang to fang. Hence, as the doorbell rang, I felt a surge of joy that not even the finest cut of Young Belted Galloway could elicit.

Samina and I greeted our honored guests at the door, ushered them into our home out of the cool night air, and immediately set to catching up on lost time. Our house was filled with the sounds of gentle, easy laughter, and not a single sign of battle-anxiety clouded our brows (not even while we engaged in an impromptu round of sword-play during the hors d'oeuvres). Such was my feeling of bonhomie that a grin remained frozen on my face as I prepared the flesh on which we'd soon feast.

And yet so much had changed since September that my expectations of the evening were uncertain. Did I think my (allegedly) erstwhile opponent would openly rejoin the battle? Could I reasonably anticipate the ritual taunting that has so pervaded our competition from the first of the year? If he failed to renounce his earlier withdrawal from BeefStakes, might he at least show any number of subtle, inadvertant signs of that competitive spirit that had driven us both to ridiculous extremes in the preceding months? Could be. Maybe. I dunno.

And so, after a lot of speculation, and much preparation, I finally got to see for myself, first-hand, this Goliath of a beef-eater in action. I was not disappointed. His appetite for the offerings of my sacrificial bull was extremely healthy, as was mine. There was no more telling demonstration of our prodigious gustatory capacity that we even saved room for chocolate cake at the end. And let's not forget the numerous servings of my wife's delicious asparagus with braised garlic (which does a fantastic job purging those unpleasant meat odors from the urine).

All in all, the evening was a great success, as two great beef guzzlers and their families communed in the spirit of friendship.

Kepler's so cute, by the way.

But one day later, as the diminishing remains of several burgers, filets and skirt steak migrate comfortably like sure-flippered loggerhead turtles through our small intestines, I am frankly puzzled by Guy's reaction to our evening together.

In a most surprising note, he has denigrated the memory of my Young Belted Galloway's noble sacrifice by quoting me quite out of context regarding my animal's alimentary merits. Yes, during dinner, I did admit to the difficulty in distinguishing between the skirt steak of my organic, pasture-raised beauty and the same cut procured at a discount market. But I made this remark in the context of a broader commentary on the skirt steak's transcendent taste and texture. So robust is this cut, I opined, that no amount of abuse (short of decay) could mar its succulence. But now, as I read Guy's post, I can only taste the bitter rising of bile in my throat.

And what of the freezer? What of the basement? Did I really shoot Guy a withering look when he inquired about the location of my meat stash? Can he possibly believe I have a head frozen down there? Or does Guy's protestation merely betray some tiny hint of anxiety that, as the weeks and days of BeefStakes draw to a close, my BeefStakes assets and weight total remain hidden from his view, all the while he continues to claim he is no longer a competitor? Indeed, in the hopes of avoiding another declaration from Guy that he has most certainly withdrawn from our contest, I won't dare comment on the fact that he plans to log his beef weight for the evening. Guy's announced intention is all the more surprising given my congenial offer to keep the night's consumption off the books.

So what does the future hold for BeefStakes, after this summit, and after Guy's post-summit attacks? I can only say that when I squint hard enough at my friend, I can almost glimpse a shimmer of that carnivorous ambition that has so animated the contest these past months. Does he still seek the crown? In my heart, I think I know the answer. Only time, and t-bones, will tell if my instincts are right.

Posted by eric at November 15, 2004 10:58 PM