In a celebrated movie (When Harry Met Sally), we are treated to a reverential dig at the leisure habits of the first world. Restaurants in the ‘80s were, according to Nora Ephron’s writer-philosopher character, what the theater was in the ‘60s. That, after all the angst suffered by English departments in the ’60’s, was an inevitable consequence of the oft-repeated idea that the theater had died. If you believe pop music, even that (music) died when Buddy Holly took that damned plane. Why is life so tough? We don’t really know, but from today’s gadget-driven internet of things, we realize that whining is part of the human condition, amplified by social media but dulled by the haptic syndrome of touch screens, or even (by now anyway) accepted, without a nasty retort by the likes of Siri and Alexa. Machines can substitute for psychotherapists if you know how to tweak settings.
Tough is however that thing we do not accept in certain things. The night has to be tender. Terms of endearment also must be. Criticism directed at our significant others must be delivered sotto voce. And, of course, steak must with a capital T be Tender. Thus, Anthony Bourdain expressed his disdain for the despicable heathens who order their steak well done. Chefs welcome such arrogant ignorance because they can get rid of mis-delivered meat without offending a free-spending type (usually on a business account, if not using plundered funds as though that never went out of style).
What does it take to get steak tender? According to Guenther Sanin of Casablanca Boulevard fame, it must be aged and just so. Our tourism honchos don’t understand this. They ought to be bringing in technology so we would do our aging locally, but they seem fixated on media contracts and duty-free shopping. That’s what we get when we have the best and brightest officials. Tough steak. But who cares? Our lucky officials travel to exotic places, outside the country, to get their beef. Lucky them. But I exaggerate.
A steak ought to sing for itself without a backup band of exotic sauces. A-1 will hate me for saying this, but they sell something to hide the fact that we couldn’t afford the best cut, and have to do with a little ‘taste enhancement.’ A-1 is good at what it does, so give it credit. Still, I remember that a good steak-frite combo could be had in the ‘80s in a now-gone place called Le Steak in Georgetown (that place by the Potomac River), and it came de rigeur with Béarnaise. So I asked Guenther why Béarnaise sauce appears almost incognito hereabouts. The answer was that it was too special a sauce to make, and it would eat up too much expertise and good butter to be just right, though you can try some from a cheap substitute fix served up by Amazon. Basically, for authentic Béarnaise, you need expert whisking.
How often can one indulge in a steak? The answer is ‘not too often,’ because, as the cardio experts say, it can clog up those arteries. There are remedies. I had a German mission chief who lined up his statins soon after he ordered the best steak in the best restaurant in Tripoli, Libya. Then there’s also red wine. Why white wine pales is a mystery I have not explored; I look for a good Cabernet and keep my counsel. But if any white wine guys can point me to a cholesterol-cutting moscato, I’d gladly take their tips under advisement.
The end matters too. What dessert goes with steak? Le Steak had something called La Surprise de Monique (an ice cream confection with candied chestnuts in the unseen bottom, hence the surprise). In another dining room in Washington, DC, it was called Coupe aux Marrons. It may still be there; just go to 700 19th St., NW. If all else fails, there’s creme brûlée (leche flan). Deciding the best creme brûlée in Dumaguete is still on my bucket list.