When I was in college, I worked at the cafeteria. It was a large room with huge windows. On one side, the windows looked into a pine forrest. On the other, they looked out over a beautiful ravine, the bottom of which was the Spokane River. Because of the view, groups would rent the place out for dances and dinners. We often would have fairly fancy buffet dinners for one large group or another, and I was trained on how to carve a baron of beef, which is a huge hunk of beef and very tasty. If you carved from one end, you’d get a nice, crispy, well done piece. From the other, you’d get a lovely rare one.
One fellow who came through the line didn’t tell me what he wanted, so I just carved the next bit and put it on his plate. Without saying a word, he looked at it, looked at me, then looked at his plate again.
I asked if it were, perhaps, a little too rare. He told me, “I’ve seen cows hurt worse than that and live.” I stifled a laugh (wouldn’t be good to laugh at him after offending his plate so), carved a piece from the well done side and switched it out. He left the buffet line happy.
I like my beef rare. I also like it well done, if has those nice crispy bits, but rare is better. Whenever I have prime rib and see a piece that is rare to perfection, I remember that gentleman.
I’m in Las Vegas this weekend for a conference with Connie Ragen Green. The group of us went to the Mirage for their great buffet, and, along with a few pieces of sushi, some salad and a piece of potato or two, I had a slice of prime rib. It was practically perfect and I was forced to relate my baron of beef story. I got to eat great food, have a fond memory and make my dining companions laugh. Not a bad night.
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