Donning my black apron, I take a deep breath. I want this to go well tonight, I want to make sure I cook this to perfection, and make the most delicious meal I can. No screw-ups. No mistakes. Just perfectly cooked, beautifully seasoned meat.
I have a glass of red wine ready on the counter, my best knife has been sharpened to a deadly point. The meat has been coming up to room temperature, on a glass plate, for almost an hour now. That means it’s just about ready to start its journey. The beautiful rose colour, shot through with pure white marbling; nothing has ever looked more appetizing to me before.
I ready my cast-iron skillet onto the largest burner on the stovetop. A thorough pat down on the soft flesh with paper towel to ensure it’s dry and ready for cooking. This meat was very expensive, hard to come by, not the usual grocery store purchase, and I wish to do the flavours proud without going overboard and smothering them. Some flaky sea salt and freshly ground black pepper directly onto both sides of the silky meat should do perfectly to begin with.
I ignite the flame beneath the skillet, setting it high, before hitting the pan with a drizzle of olive oil. I take another sip of wine, bold and somewhat tangy, while I wait for the pan to reach the ideal heat. I want to create a good sear, an almost crust around the outside of my meat, which I will need very high temperatures to achieve without overcooking the soft flesh within.
It does not take long before the oil is gliding around the bottom of the pan, shimmering in the overhead lighting. Slowly, being careful not to splash my fingers with hot oil, I gently lower the piece of meat into the skillet. The sizzling sound is instantaneous, erupting into the quiet room. Once it is nestled into the centre of the pan, I turn away from the cooktop. I know that if I continue to look at the beautiful piece of flesh that was once living and breathing, I will not be able to stop myself from fiddling with it. And this meat needs a few minutes to sit and develop.
The sounds behind me are music to my ears, the smells already filling the kitchen space are breath-taking. When it comes to cooking meat, I always hope I do justice to my gracious donor for the evening. I want to make them proud of what they will become once I have finished in the kitchen. To me, cooking is an artform, and I wish to appreciate my models, my muses, with the utmost perfection I can achieve.
After a few minutes, I turn back to see the progress. I can see that the edges of the meat have lifted ever so slightly from the hot surface. Grasping one side gently with a set of kitchen tongs, the meat seems to glide along in the oil. Absolutely perfect. A careful, but practiced flip, and the now even, deep brown colour is revealed to me. Time to rest for another few minutes and wait.
While I give this side of the meat a little bit longer to sear, I prep my next few ingredients. A decent sized pad of butter, probably equalling to about 1 tablespoon all up, a few sprigs of fresh thyme I brought in from the garden this morning, and 2 small cloves of garlic.
I carefully place the butter on top of the piece of meat and toss the thyme and garlic into the skillet beside it. Watching as the butter slowly melts, creating a golden river cascading down into the pan, I drink down another mouthful of wine and ready my spoon. As the last of the butter melts from solid to liquid, I lightly tilt the skillet to bring all of the bubbling gold into one area. I place the sprigs and cloves directly into the centre of the meat, and start scooping up butter to ceremoniously drizzle over the perfectly cooked brown crust.
I continue to baste the meat for a minute, almost 2 minutes, before I have to pull myself away from the glorious task to avoid overcooking the meat. I turn off the flame and bring the skillet over to my wooden chopping board set up in the middle of the island bench. Settling the meat on the board, and covering it with a sheet of shiny foil, I begin the next waiting period. This one the most arduous of the whole night. I must leave it covered, no peeking, while it rests and the juices redistribute back within the flesh.
Another mouthful of wine, followed by a second closely behind it. I decide setting the table for myself would be the best way to occupy the minutes I have to wait before I can cut into the soft and now hopefully buttery meat.
From the cabinet under the window, I pull a black fabric tablecloth with textured gold patterned trim. A simple, yet elegant white plate. A matching knife and fork set, gleaming bright silver in the light, the handles patterned with small geometric shapes. I take one last mouthful of wine as I grab my glass to bring it to the setting, an instinct, but upon realising it was the last in the glass, I leave it on the bench to refill in just a moment. I couldn’t wait anymore.
My face is greeted with a plume of heavenly scented steam as I removed the foil covering. It cleared from my eyes to reveal the object of all my desires; she was perfect, the most beautiful piece of art I had every created within my kitchen. Taking the knife, sharpened to the sort of edge a master chef requires, I begin cutting the meat into even size strips. The beautiful rose colour I admired earlier still lingered within the deep brown hues of the crust the meat has acquired.
I carry the board over to the table, carefully laying the slices onto the crisp white plate, season it once again with a small pinch of more sea salt and black pepper, turning the plate into a canvas and the whole setting into a masterpiece.
I sit down at the table, grasping my fork, and just before piercing the expensive bovine A5 steak I had just prepared to the absolute best of my ability, I realised I had forgotten to refill my wine. Racing up to grab my glass and the bottle from beside the fridge to not waste any more time, I bring them both back to the table with me.
Reclaiming my fork, spearing a singular strip, I pour myself another glass of the deep red liquid. Since the wine had been so exquisite tonight, I turn the bottle to read the name on the label.
Melissa Langley, 26 years old, AB negative.
Taking the strip of meat into my mouth was heavenly, silky smooth, juicy, wonderful. The following mouthful of slightly thicker than usual red wine; absolutely exquisite, the zing of the slightly metallic flavour almost biting the tip of my tongue. The most perfect, delicious meal.