Great Dinners

Ammunition

He knew about the affair as soon as she began serving him steak. There could be no other explanation. She’d always been a Mac ‘n Cheese kind of girl, Hamburger Helper if you were lucky. She wasn’t any kind of cook. He knew that when he married her. He married her because she was pregnant. He knew his life was a cliché. He’d accepted that.

That was 15 years ago and Sammy Jo was in high school now, giving him a heart attack every time she left the house. He said everything he’d been supposed to say, made jokes about curfews and guns, laughed nervously despite himself. Truth was, he’d never really learned to shoot a gun. Truth was he couldn’t remember where he’d hidden the box of ammunition. It had been years. He feared ever having to use a gun. He thinks he probably hid it somewhere he’d forget on purpose.

She’d put a big fat steak on the table. He couldn’t believe it. There was no way to make sense of a steak like that. It was enormous, bloody, seething with fat around the edges. It bled onto the plate. Parts of it were charred from the pan. What’s the occasion? he’d said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Nothin’, she’d replied. It was going cheap.

He knew that couldn’t possibly be true. This was a woman whose dedication to cheap carbohydrates meant that there were always more buns than hotdogs because “you can always eat ‘em with ketchup.” She was the kind of woman who ate hot dog buns with ketchup. Not the kind who’d cook a steak. He felt a bit ill and sat down.

The next week she did it again. Sammy Jo had gone out on a date and he’d come home to the smell of meaty grease. She’d showered, he could smell the shampoo. There was a bottle of red wine on the table. He had no idea what to make of that. He can’t remember the last time he drank wine. Possibly never. For a few uncomfortable minutes he felt himself sweat wondering how you got into a bottle of wine. All he had was a bottle opener on his key ring, like any other man. Then he realized it was a screw top. Pour yourself a glass, she called from the kitchen.

Afterwards, he asked her why again, and she used her kitten voice to tell him it was because he deserved it. He wondered what, exactly, he deserved. A nice steak, she said. Men like steak. He wasn’t so sure. In fact, he had become convinced that men did not like steak; that it was some kind of conspiracy on the part of women who couldn’t cook to hide something. Like ammunition. As far as he could recall, he’d never particularly expressed a desire for steak, knowing, as he did, that it wasn’t cheap and that she couldn’t cook. Suddenly, he hated steak. He entertained the thought of becoming a vegetarian.

She’d tried to go down on him. That was when he was sure about the other man. He’d let her, kept his eyes closed, and couldn’t come. She’d rolled over, and he’d said it’s not your fault.

That night, he sat up listening for Sammy Jo to come home. Eleven, twelve, one, one-thirty. One thirty-four. Tires crunching. Another 15 minutes at the door. He wanted to surprise her with the gun, but it occurred to him that her boyfriend might be bigger than him, and have a bigger gun. A loaded one. He meant to get up and let her know he’d been waiting up, give her a piece of his mind about the curfew, but when she slipped in and stepped silently up the stairs, he held his breath.

He was a man sitting alone in the dark with blue balls and a cheating wife who couldn’t cook, a daughter who smelled like cigarettes, an empty gun in his lap and a belly full of steak. When he finally breathed, it sounded like a cry escaping around the lump big as a bottle in his throat. He swallowed it back down.

He remembered where he’d put the ammunition. He suddenly remembered, clear as broken glass. 

Great Dinners from LIFE, Eleanor Graves, 1969

Also from this book: Fish Fly

Broiled Steak

When I was a boy, my father took me to the barber for a hair cut once a month. The barber threw the cloth around my shoulders and fired up his electric trimmer, and ran it all over my head, and never once said a word. Once he was done, he’d undo the cloth, give my shoulders a quick dusting with his brush, and indicate with a nod of his head that it was time for me to hop off. My dad paid whatever it was he paid. The barbershop was like a clubhouse, but one that still held all its secrets. You could sit in the chair, but you knew you hadn’t been allowed in. I got the same haircut every other boy got in 1959. Some boys I know went to Vietnam having never experienced more than a quarter inch of hair their whole lives. Some hadn’t even started shaving for real yet.

The women went to the salon. I don’t know what they did there.

My father was a man’s man. He wore a suit and tie every day of the year, even on weekends. The only time I ever saw him in anything other than that was in his pajamas and robe on Christmas morning, and again, when he was laid up before he died. My dad never said much. He went to work and wore a suit, and slicked his hair back with pomade and kissed my mother on the cheek and poured himself a whiskey once he got home. He read the newspaper and watched some baseball.

He barbecued. He bought himself a big round barbecue grill and a big sack of coals and he grilled steaks on his birthday. Mother would pretend not to do any work, but she did everything except put the steaks on the grill. She smiled a lot but she also fell asleep early.

My uncle got a new camera. In this photo, he asked us to pose. He asked me to hold the raw steak up for my dad, and so I did. My mother never drank beer, but my uncle thought she’d look less awkward with a drink in her hand. Some of the steaks had been glazed with a marinade — you can see them — but the rest we just laid on the cold coals. No-one had remembered to light them up before my uncle posed us all for the picture. That’s the only way I could hold my hands out so close to the grill; it was stone cold.

This is not the recommended way to cook steak.

I can’t recall the look on my father’s face. I mean, I can’t name it. I guess impassive is as close as I’m going to get. He was the sort of man who thought it was important to cut your hair once a month and to own a barbecue. I’m not sure what my mother saw in him. Perhaps she saw a man in a suit and apron standing in front of an unlit grill holding a spatula.

Yes, now that I think of it, that’s exactly what she saw.

Better Homes & Gardens Barbecue Book, Meredith Publishing Company, 1959

Steakmanship

Ladies: because Memorial Day is a national holiday that occurs during warm weather, you have to cede control of the meat to the most senior male in your household. This is because on national holidays, the menfolk work the grill. You will be in charge of the shopping, the salads, the drinks, the entertainment and all the cleaning.  

Enjoy.

The New Wolf in Chef’s Clothing, Robert H. Leob, Jr., 1950

Also from this book: My, Chef, What Big Teeth You Have!

Darwinian

Margeurite Patten, OBE, CBE, has sold 17 million copies of her 170 books, which makes her an astonishingly prolific bestselling author. And yet, she came up with dishes like these Darwin Steaks.

Interestingly, the city of Darwin is located in Australia’s Top End, which is also the name for the part of the animal the top end cut comes from. It’s called top end because it’s at the top and it’s the best bit. Australians might have you believe this too. It would be a crime to mince a really good bit of top end steak for this recipe. The city was named for Charles Darwin, of the Origin of Species fame, because the ship he had sailed on, The Beagle, put ashore there. In those days, it was considered the right thing to do to name a spot after illustrious members of your crew. On general knowledge tests, when asked what The Beagle was, people say “a dog.” This is because people have no love for nautical history. Charles Darwin loved earthworms best of all, and his wife (who was also his first cousin), bore him ten children. Whenever one of them got sick he would fret that it was due to genetic weakness caused by marrying your first cousin. The fittest, however, survived.

Margeurite Patten’s All-Colour Book Of Freezing, 1975

Also from this book: Cheesy Fish

A Feast For The Eyes

Robert Hughes says that “by general consent, Jean Siméon Chardin (pronounced “char-din”) was one of the supreme artists of the eighteenth century and probably the greatest master of still life in the history of painting,” but what does he know of art? Isn’t he Australian?

Real artists have their work displayed in art galleries and museums but Chardin’s daubings can still be found right where he painted them — the Louvre, a second-rate tourist attraction in Paris known mostly for displaying such things as sculptures of women missing their arms and tiny portraits of women sort of smiling. Not the pinnacle of man’s artistry, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Chardin’s paintings are supposed to be exquisite demonstrations of the Golden Rule in terms of their composition, creating a harmonious balance within a dynamic three-dimensional space. And yet all they are are bits of food on tables. Look at his “Still Life with a Rib of Beef,” for example. I know it was 1739, and they didn’t have refrigeration back then, but do we really need to be reminded of what a stench raw meat would have made just hanging there? I see some onions, but what else is the cook going to use to make something tasty? A few jugs and pots and a cloth — boring.

Far more interesting and useful is the work of the photographer / stylist (if indeed they are two separate people) who created the magnificent photographs that illustrate the book Quick and Simple Cooking for Two. See how the eye is led diagonally across the page — no horizontals or verticals here. There are plenty of oblique circles to keep the eye busy, and splashes of red indicate where the real action takes place, in the paired pans holding the prepared food. In between, we see evidence of what has gone into the meal: whole and chopped veggies, including a stalwart sheaf of celery.

Chardin can paint metals like copper and brass all he wants but can he paint stainless steel? Note the contrast between the polished bowl and grater, how they reflect the spotlight differently. Consider too the humanist touch of the tablecloth, recognizable from picnics to bistros like a security blanket. It says you are safe. This food will not kill you like raw beef. Critics, being unkind, might say that the rolled steaks look worryingly like turds, but that’s just how well-cooked meat looks.

The art lover can save themselves a lot of trouble and expense by eschewing the overrated glories of Paris and taking another look at what treasures lie in their bookshelves at home. Also, you won’t have to speak French.

Quick and Simple Cooking for Two, Ideals Publishing Corporation, 1976 

Also from this book: It Was All Yellow, Depth Of Field

Teddy Bear’s Picnic

If you go out in the woods today


You're sure of a big surprise.


If you go out in the woods today


You'd better go in disguise.



For every bear that ever there was


Will gather there for certain, because


Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

BEAR ONE: Easy does it…easy does it…

BEAR TWO: Shhhh! They’ll hear us!

BEAR ONE:  (whispering) They are too stupid to hear us. Also, they have a primitive sense of smell.

BEAR TWO:  I’ll go for the steaks on the left, you take the ones on the right.

BEAR ONE:  Do you want any salad?

BEAR TWO:  Nah.

BEAR ONE:  Golly, each of these things must weigh 4 lbs! It always amazes me how humans can eat so much yet stay so thin.

BEAR TWO:  It’s not like they have to hibernate either!

BEAR ONE:  I know! madness!

BEAR TWO:  Hey — did you notice they put out butter knives?

BEAR ONE:  Good luck, people! Idiots.

BEAR TWO:  They’re in for a nasty surprise when they sit down to dinner!

BEAR ONE:  People never learn.

BEAR TWO:  I can’t wait to tell the guys back at the den about this lot.

BEAR ONE:  Last night when I was scoping this site out I found their recipe book, did I tell you that?

BEAR TWO:  No, go on. This should be a laugh.

BEAR ONE:  No shit. It was open to a page on “Campfire Cookery.” It read “Since fire was first discovered, man has cooked his food over an open fire.”

BEAR TWO:  Are you serious?

BEAR ONE:  Swear to God.

BEAR TWO:  Who writes that nonsense? It doesn’t even make sense.

BEAR ONE:  I know! As if man could have cooked over an open fire before it was discovered!

BEAR TWO:  All fire is “open.” It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, how humans could have come this far.

BEAR ONE:  It blows your mind. Man, that was good steak. I’m full.

BEAR TWO:  You have that glazed look about you.

BEAR ONE:  I could still go for some berries though. I like a bit of something sweet after a meal. Besides, it’s October — the Missus says I have to put on more weight.

BEAR TWO:  Is she knocked up yet?

BEAR ONE:  I bloody well hope so — it’s been nothing but mating all autumn. I’m exhausted!

BEAR TWO:  They get insatiable.

BEAR ONE:  And then they don’t let you anywhere near them in the Spring! It’s so unfair.

BEAR ONE:  Tell me about it.

           Encyclopedia of Cooking 3, Bro to Cau, Better Homes and Gardens, 1970

           Also from this book: Seafoam Cantaloupe Pie, Cooking By Encyclopedia, It’s A Green, Green, Green, Green World