I notice that many bloggers like to write about food. I don’t follow this trend, but a fellow blogger recently asked for advice on ordering the perfect hamburger. This got me thinking about the two problems I face when dining out.
First, breakfast is Mrs. Chatterbox’s favorite meal. She cooks most of our meals but on occasion I’ll whip up one of my specialties, like egg omelets with linguica (a Portuguese sausage similar to chorizo) but on weekends she likes to let strangers prepare our breakfasts. Looking at me, you might be inclined to think I eat everything and anything; you’d be wrong. I can’t eat a fried egg unless the yolk is dippy. If you can stand a fork in a fried egg, I can’t eat it. The yolk turns into cement in my mouth and I can’t swallow. If I order ham and eggs over easy, the yolks are usually rubbery enough for a game of jacks. If I ask for eggs over very easy, they often come raw as a hangover remedy. To avoid sending eggs back most of the time, I order them scrambled. I’m not fond of scrambled eggs.
Second: I have difficulty ordering steaks in restaurants. I love steak, and for me it must be grilled with a pink center. Inevitably when ordering a steak, the server will ask, “How would you like it cooked?”
I’ll say, “I’d like it pink in the center.”
The server will say, “You want it medium rare.”
I’ll repeat, “I want it pink in the center.”
Mrs. Chatterbox, who isn’t picky about such things, usually rolls her eyes and says, “Just order rare or medium rare and be done with it.”
But when I order rare it comes oozing blood, and when I order medium rare all of the juice (i.e. flavor) is cooked out of it. If I complain the server says something like, “That’s the way were cook medium rare here.”
How do you argue with that? So I prefer to tell the server, “I want my steak grilled with a hint of pink in the middle.”
“You want it medium rare.”
“I don’t care what you call it, just so long as I see pink!”
I usually see pink before my overcooked steak arrives—Mrs. Chatterbox’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Those of you who’ve read Single Ply Miracle will be happy to know that Mrs. C. has tired of the game and is no longer stocking my bathroom with single ply. After writing this post I visited my personal sanctuary and used up the last of the cheap toilet paper. Now I’m sitting pretty and treating myself to double ply, and because I’m worth it—quilted.