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Independence, MO —
I have heard it said that one’s enjoyment of a meal is in equal proportion to the amount of cream, cheese or butter in the dish, and if you think about it, you would have to agree.
I mean, when was the last time you heard someone utter lasciviously, “Mmmm, radish” or “Oh, how stunning, celery!” under their breath at a restaurant.
By our national weight, it would appear that the whole of America would agree with me. It’s annoying though that as the inclusion of fats in foods seems to be a French sport, the French on the whole are all very nicely proportioned and not at all overweight. I even mentioned to Madam on our recent trip how tiny the French policemen’s bottoms were. Not a Pierre L’Ardass among them. There are obviously no doughnuts in Paris, let me tell you.
I think I’ve worked out what the problem is in a nutshell.
Fat.
The wrong kind of fat, to be precise.
We as a nation consume our fats, apparently with both hands, in the form of fast food and snacks, but not in the preparation of proper meals. I don’t think I would hear any argument over that.
To counteract our love affair with such treats, the produce people have therefore trimmed their fats right out of our lives.
A classic case in point – I am not a huge lover of steak. For the most part I find it just doesn’t taste like it did when I was younger, and I quite frankly couldn’t be bothered to make it.
Now this leads to problems in our household, as my beloved Sir is a firm believer that if it didn’t moo when it was alive, or was not classified as corn or potato, it should therefore not be consumed.
So I do buy the odd ribeye, as I find it is a cut with more flavor than any other, but occasionally I will try my hand at others.
And so with my world weary ennui toward beef products, I surprised myself by ordering a steak in Paris. Oh what a little taste bud tickler that was – seasoned to perfection, and beautifully marbled with creamy oh-so-bad-for-you fat, it danced across my tongue shrieking “ooh la la!” as it went. I think it may have even done a bit of a Can Can across my tonsils as it tittered its way down my throat. I salivate to think of it even now.
I have heard it said that one’s enjoyment of a meal is in equal proportion to the amount of cream, cheese or butter in the dish, and if you think about it, you would have to agree.
I mean, when was the last time you heard someone utter lasciviously, “Mmmm, radish” or “Oh, how stunning, celery!” under their breath at a restaurant.
By our national weight, it would appear that the whole of America would agree with me. It’s annoying though that as the inclusion of fats in foods seems to be a French sport, the French on the whole are all very nicely proportioned and not at all overweight. I even mentioned to Madam on our recent trip how tiny the French policemen’s bottoms were. Not a Pierre L’Ardass among them. There are obviously no doughnuts in Paris, let me tell you.
I think I’ve worked out what the problem is in a nutshell.
Fat.
The wrong kind of fat, to be precise.
We as a nation consume our fats, apparently with both hands, in the form of fast food and snacks, but not in the preparation of proper meals. I don’t think I would hear any argument over that.
To counteract our love affair with such treats, the produce people have therefore trimmed their fats right out of our lives.
A classic case in point – I am not a huge lover of steak. For the most part I find it just doesn’t taste like it did when I was younger, and I quite frankly couldn’t be bothered to make it.
Now this leads to problems in our household, as my beloved Sir is a firm believer that if it didn’t moo when it was alive, or was not classified as corn or potato, it should therefore not be consumed.
So I do buy the odd ribeye, as I find it is a cut with more flavor than any other, but occasionally I will try my hand at others.
And so with my world weary ennui toward beef products, I surprised myself by ordering a steak in Paris. Oh what a little taste bud tickler that was – seasoned to perfection, and beautifully marbled with creamy oh-so-bad-for-you fat, it danced across my tongue shrieking “ooh la la!” as it went. I think it may have even done a bit of a Can Can across my tonsils as it tittered its way down my throat. I salivate to think of it even now.
I bought a “fillet roast” the other day at Trader Joe’s. A perfect size for the two of us with the promise of a usable amount of leftovers, I followed the cooking instructions to the letter. And while it was tender enough – just I might add, it was as dry as the Queen’s sense of humor.
And then I figured it out. The light bulb went on over the head, and “Eureka” came to mind.
It’s not us who have been forced to diet, it’s the cows. I’m sure cows are put on a very strict Jenny Craig regimen, accompanied by a good deal of Richard Simmons aerobics, and topped off with a visit to the liposuctionist on their last tango toward the abattoir.
This fillet didn’t have a gram of fat on it. Not a speck. And next time you visit the meat department in the store, you will see what I mean.
Every single thing has been trimmed of all visible fat, and whilst a noble sentiment in saving us all from our own cholesterol, actually robs the meat of any defense against drying out, and indeed the most important part of the consumption thereof, its flavor.
Right now you don’t salivate over sitting down to a “nice, juicy steak,” you sit down to one you hope hasn’t withered to the appearance and taste of shoe leather. Juice left the building years ago, and taste wasn’t far behind.
I think it’s all part of a general governmental conspiracy to yet again over-govern us. Not being able to sway the likes of the Nabiscos and Posts and Kelloggs of this world, the government has had a small word in the shell pink ears of butchers nationwide to help in the war against flab. Possibly the government has offered free lottery tickets for a year in order to persuade the butchers to toe the line, because I can think of no other reason that a butcher would so go against his training.
The problem with it all, though, is that we human beings do indeed demand a certain quality to our fodder, which is made up of all manner of goodies – proteins and carbs and fats, salts and spices – and so by cutting out a chunk of it, the fat, we go to seek it somewhere else. And so here we are, as I said, a nation of inveterate chronic snackers, trying desperately to make up for that little bit of clandestine stuff sadly lacking on our steaks.
To paraphrase Joe Cocker: “You can leave some fat on.”
