Meatfare

The positive thing about self-indulgently writing about yourself in one manner or the other (a diary became a journal became a blog) over a period of at least ten years is that you realize that you really haven't changed that much in essentials. And while my following comment is not entirely fair, I don't stand alone: real men eat meat. Apparently I've known this for a while.

I'll come full circle, don't worry. Anthony Bourdain writes in Kitchen Confidential, "Vegetarians, and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans, are a persistent irritant to any chef worth a damn. To me, life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demi-glace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living." My new favorite blog features a woman writing about how her cowboy wheedled his way to her vegetarian heart by preparing for her medium rare steaks. There is something admirably American, pioneerish, and masculine about a man firing up a grill, frying a turkey, basting ribs, or even flipping Spam slices on a barbecue.

I note the consistency I'm discovering in my own tastes because tonight I recalled two personal, historical instances of hoping to see the Porterhouse in a man, and instead finding only bean sprouts. A few years ago I met up with a young man I had dated years before that for lunch at PF Chang's while I was visiting from out of town. I remember vividly that I ordered a beer and he ordered....a diet Coke. When I knew him, he wore t-shirts and took me to Sonic. When we met up, he used hair gel, wore Polos, and ordered diet colas. Years after that, I remember calling a beloved ex who quickly moved on to date a vegetarian art major. He's the one who grilled Spam, sauteed Johnsonville brats, and cut up whole chickens for curry. Chatting with him on the phone after I moved away--months after our breakup--when I learned that they would be taking a trip together (and were coalescing romantically and in their obnoxious political views), I remember hissing at him, "You haven't become a vegetarian too have you?"

I'll readily admit I'm a hypocite, with my own dabbling in flavored tofus, vegan raviolis, soy yogurts, meat-substitute protein, blackbean veggie burgers, and even Splenda (really all delicious). What I don't like is when a personal food choice (whether it's vegetarianism or succumbing to societal pressure to drink diet drinks or not eat foie gras) either highlights a personality weakness or is adopted in a self-righteous way that derides the perfectly valid preferences of others. All this to say that meat really is delicious.

On this celebration-of-meat weekend, on Saturday night I joined some lovely friends for five pitchers of Sangria and lots of tapas at Jaleo, a delicious restaurant run by one of DC's resident Spaniards. It gets panned--by Spaniards too--but I think the atmosphere is vibrant, the food is good, and while it's pricey, I feel close enough to Spain and the Mediterranean to be satisfied. So, in the vein of taking unappetizing photos of food, I present below the easiest food documenting I've done: taking a photo of my plate every 10 minutes to reflect the new loads before me.

Load #1: I would be a peasant in any Mediterranean country if my lunches consisted of the food at 9 and 2 o'clock: bread and meat. Serrano ham and chorizo make my heart ache for a life of wearing sandals, drinking water from a canteen, and opening up a knapsack to find those things waiting for me when the sun's at its height. The skewered tapa at 11 o'clock is chorizo wrapped in a potato sheath... bustled up with a toothpick.



Load #2: orderly-like, we'll start at 9 o'clock. That's a mangled (split with my neighbor) croqueta, quite possibly the least healthy but most delicious tapa (abstractly, not here). This one had chicken (not very flavorful) but the croquetas that make you want to be a subject of King Juan Carlos have ham and cheese. 11 o'clock features the table favorite, a date...wrapped in bacon..then fried. Then the ubiquitous bread again (and a hefty roasted red pepper next to it). At 4 o'clock is a slice of Hanger steak. Hanger steak is like the Mickey Rourke cut in the beef world: a bit rough around the edges but still wins awards.


After other assorted loads of cheese slivers, patatas bravas, espinacas a la Catalana, and garbanzos con epinacas, my delightful friend Phil and I split Rabo de toro con naranjas, braised boneless oxtail served with oranges, potato puree, and PX red wine sauce. It was heavenly: tender, flavorful, rich, citrusy, and very, very meaty. Phil, a charming Marine, didn't shy away.

Yesterday, I celebrated again, at Hard Times Cafe, just down the street. Meat can be sophisticated, even in seemingly unsophisticated places. I wanted chili. My two favorite/most nostalgic places for chili are Haye's Hamburgers in Kansas City (where I first learned you could put chili on spaghetti) and Skyline Chili (an Ohio chain) in Tampa. And the Coney Island restaurant my mom's Papou ran, of which I've only seen pictures. As I've been convinced DC can produce neither good barbecue nor good chili (for the reasons I've outlined above), I was surprised to learn I can get my fill of meat and manly-looking men just down the street.

This place was full of non-Old Townies: men with blue blue jeans, men with families, men who looked like they used Tabasco sauce more than their Blackberries, men who drink domestic beer. Of course this was superfluous as most were fatherly/grandfatherly, but just feeds my point.

Hard Times has this great idea to let you try the chilis before you eat them. They offered two types of nearly identical spicy, traditional chilis; a chili from a Greek immigrant's recipe that featured cinnamon (καλά!); and vegetarian chili. Dinner by candle/Bud light. How romantic.

There is no further explanation needed for below, except I got Terlingua Red chili mac with beans (costs extra). Oh, and cornbread. Delicious cornbread.

And, just to top it off, as I was leaving, I looked up and saw a sign indicating where I need to go to find a good meal and/or man.