Read Part 1 here!
Step 2: Grill Your Meat
When I get home, the meat loses its shape. Fat no longer shields the top, revealing the girders of the meat’s structure. Why couldn’t the AI give me a normal steak? Blame young microcelebrities boosting their view counts. Asking who decided this was going to be the trend and why they want to keep pushing steak outside our budget is a question for the culture division, who I always mute on video conferences.
I text one of their more cultured writers – is wagyu supposed to look like this? – and he redirects me to twenty minutes of thirty-second cooking shows. They say to slap the meat into a searing pan with no lubricant and cook for two minutes. You want it rare. You want the fat to just start rendering.
My meat is so slick that I look up if it can melt. There isn’t enough data on AI wagyu to tell if it liquifies, but the flashpoint for real meat is too high for my stove to worry about.
I crank the gas past high. When fat particles ooze from my hand into the flame, pops and crackles crescendo, fireworks on a culinary scale.
What happens once I start cooking? The longer I hold it, the more it curls towards the pan, as if the machine granted it romantic attraction to non-stick cookware. Our AI engineer cast it out for cheap after hearing my prayers for this date.
The steak is suicidal. It divebombs from my fingers; the pan spits smoke. I wave the fire and brimstone away from my eyes, turn on my fan, not enough ventilation, I open a window, how long was I supposed to cook this for again? The edges have hardly browned and my date’s on the way and how badly am I going to botch this she’s going to hate me and a second later the brownness skyrockets. I fumble the tongs, flip the meat, it sings in exhalation. Its fat shell melts. Bits of meat crack open like a wound, yet the steak demands to go on longer.
The whole thing swims through boiling fat, drifts into shards with their own layers of fat glistening on top. One at a time, I evacuate them into a cocoon of paper towels. The white moistens and browns.
Six nuggets of meat rest, well done leaning towards singed. Behind me, a reservoir of oil complains of emptiness. It isn’t ready to solidify. It wants to crackle and sing until the heat is no more.
I promised a bountiful dinner. My fridge is devoid of fresh produce, but I discover bagged French fries in the freezer. At least they can deliver international zest.
Step 3: Eat Your Steak
The first thing Lauren Parmentier does is cough, despite the fans in the kitchen filtering out the smoke, which started to take a pleasant caramelizing scent instead of a burning one.
“You’re using air freshener?” she asks.
Sure, Lauren, sure. “Would you like some wine?”
She sips, she sours. “Tastes like juice.”
If she were in a restaurant, she would’ve made a note on the décor, wether supportive or incisive, which would serve as the opening of her article. I ask what her tagline would be for my humble abode. It doesn’t leave an impact. I’m not posting a picture, but trust when I say it’s not bad.
Tonight’s entree is shaved wagyu nestled atop a bed of fries, resuscitated with a hydrogenated fat au jus.
“Steak frites,” I say. “I tried this in France when I did an article on a failed VR startup. It wasn’t in Paris, though.”
Lauren likes to avoid reacting while she eats.
“What do you think?” I use a couple crispier-looking fries to hoist steak from the pile. It falls apart better than most and melts between my teeth.
She fishes another nugget with her fork. “You didn’t season this at all, did you?”
“The sear is the seasoning. I may not look like it, but I’m a pretty smart chef.”
God knows that’s true. While its delicate char runs the corners of my mouth, its jerky-like flavor strengthens. The meat starts an electrical fire inside my mouth, and its smoke wafts up my esophagus and nostrils and seasons my brain. My head flutters; my saliva tastes fattier.
“Where’d you get this?” Lauren foregoes the fries. She’s not done chewing by the time she reaches for her next nugget of gold.
“I got it from my friend Wally. He’s a butcher.” I make sure to add that last part.
“It’s soggy.” She waves wagyu like soaked toilet paper, yet once the grease finishes flapping into her hands, it’s down the hatch.
“Well, the AI adds about double the fat it needs.” My head stops fluttering. It was nice while it lasted.
“Glitch in the programming?”
“They’ll iron out the kinks. Then we’ll all be able to buy meat for $15.”
“Until they raise the price.”
“We can dream, can’t we?” If they raise the price, I’ll have to flee the country, and then I’d have to buddy-buddy with the bullpen at their touristy clubs. I can’t afford Paris.
The meat sublimates. Who cares about the pricing? I will always be with you. One day, you will eat 100% fat. I will flow from your sewing machines and through your arteries like butter.
“You think this meat has a soul?” I ask.
She stops mid-bite. Crumbs glue to the corners of her mouth thanks to the meat’s friend and mine.
“Like some kind of artistic vision?
“No. Does it have thoughts and feelings?”
“No.” She plows another nugget, then another, into her mouth.
“I think the meat has feelings.” There’s one more nugget left on top of the fries, which I reach for, but she takes.
The flavor punches Lauren behind the eyes. She darts to the bathroom, where she dabs away tears with my last tissue. She hunches over the sink, staring at her fatty fingerprints clotting up the paper. She trembles.
“Are you okay?” Really, I promise I’m not that bad a chef, but I told Dear Editor he should’ve cooked it, and I was right.
Lauren limps from the bathroom and downs French fries with passion. More fat coats her lips and seeps under her fingernails.
“You got dessert?” She stands up straighter. “Something really sugary?”
My search turns up only a bag of frozen peas and more untouched fries.
She licks the plate clean and follows me into the kitchen. I wash dishes while she examines leftover crumbs under the light.
“These look real,” she says. “I should go to that butcher shop.”
“Or you could stay a while.” I scrub grease off the serving tray. “We still need to take notes on the flavor. You liked my steak, didn’t you? I cooked it right?”
Lauren pops a couple soap bubbles and wanders toward my fridge – there are the fries that take too long to defrost. “I’d like to go now.”
A plate falls from my hands. This is the first date I’ve had in years, and, readers, I forgot the rules of dating, but if Lauren Parmentier suggests more time hitting the city, you take her up on it.
We leave the dishes soaking in the sink’s basin. The smoke inside my apartment evokes toasted marshmallow guts running over s’mores prepared by the hearth of a campfire.
“I know a great spot for ice cream on the way home,” I say.
