We decided it was time for a steak.
I was assuming porterhouse, but when I got to the store, the rib-eyes were the ones saying eat me.
They were incredibly gorgeous, fresh and red and marbled with fat that would soon melt itself into flavor. Meat like that ain't cheap, but I had entered the range of the tractor beam. I was powerless to resist. Take my money, just give me the good beef.
At my sister's suggestion, I toasted some peppercorns, all the kinds I had -- black, white, Szechwan -- then ground them up and pressed them into the steaks. I built a superzealous fire and browned those babies up nice. While they rested, I put some par-boiled broccoli and wonderful wheat Italian bread on the grill, all of it brushed with butter and olive oil. Our Mexican neighbors, charged up after their country's World Cup victory over Iran, walked by and nodded their approval. I wish I could have fed them too.
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