Watching the Chef

It was mandatory that I eat a juicy steak immediately.  Unfortunately, I picked a time that was jam-packed with proud parents who took their brand-new college graduates to dinner.  Since this city is home to a famous Military Academy, these families probably traveled from states all over the country to watch their kids graduate, and ooh and ahh to the Thunderbirds who always fly over graduation.

I didn’t care.  I had to have a steak.  Immediately.

So, because there were no tables or room at the bar, they put me at a bar directly in front of the steak-grilling chefs. I had this chef -surveillance bar all to myself.  Never really wanted to watch them, you know, but I thought what the hell, this way I can see how they cook my steak and also of course, make sure there is no shenanigans or hanky-panky happening back there, if you know what I mean.  

Damn it smelled good.

Seems there was a grill chef in front of the burners closest to me with various helpers, and another chef on the other side of the large grill, probably cooking the side dishes etc.  But who cares about side-dishes anyway? I only needed a steak.  And a Glenlivet-12 scotch to wash it down.

  Very little talking.  Lots of frenzied work, but not once he did look at his watch to time his cooking from all the orders, like rare, medium rare, medium and of course, well done is a ridiculous waste of meat and requires no timing.  They ignored me, as well they should because I would not allow any hanky panky with my food, and they damn well knew it.   “Yes waiter, I’ll have another scotch, since you insist.”

I wanted to say something to the chef rather than just stare, because, well, seems rude to treat the cooks/chefs like animals in a zoo that need to be enjoyed as a curiosity.   But I refrained, for several reasons, one of which is I think he was Mexican and may not have been able to speak English.  I’m sure he knew that big black blob of something on the grill that had become an inferno of charcoal was well done.  Some customers like to crunch on charcoal, but seems would be cheaper to go to the store and buy some Kingsford briquets.  But it appears, he understood the American language of grilling steaks quite well.   I don’t know if I saw him cook my gorgeous juicy ribeye, but he had a slight of hand like a meat-flipping magician. 

The scotch was tasting pretty good by then and there was a sneaky but warm caressing of my brain cells to a point where, like a good massage, your sense of logic has become dull as a butter knife.  Speaking of butter, it was an excellent butter with hot homemade rolls that sucked its’ salty self deep inside forcing you to gobble them up immediately while hoping the now melted butter is not dripping down your chin.

So, then the waiter saw I was enjoying myself and suggested another scotch on the rocks, and after about two milliseconds of thought, I replied that it was an excellent suggestion.  I noticed the cute water girls bouncing by me and smiling and checking on my water supply, so of course, I quickly emptied my glass of water every three minutes to make sure Trinity came bouncing back so I could enjoy her smooth pouring technique.

Well, that’s about all, a good steak, good scotch and I sure was well-hydrated. Trinity told me she liked to read, so I told her I just so happened to be a novelist and blogger, and who knows, she may become an Ollie fan.  I think everyone needs to know Ollie, no matter what age.

In fact, I thought about the old man, and I figured this was a place he would like and maybe I’ll suggest it to him if I ever meet him again, but then, he won’t come.  He doesn’t like crowds and noise.  But he does like Guinness, which I noticed was on the drink menu.

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