High Steak Game

This he knew. Familiar territory despite only ever cooking it a few times. The crouton he looked up on his phone to ensure he got the heat and the timings right. He crushed garlic on the two circles of bread and drizzled in olive oil. Then he let it sit as he cut the vegetables he’d rinsed and drained having retrieved them from the fridge.

The fillet steaks were the centre piece. They’d sat on the side so they weren’t too cool when they were gently placed in the pan. Lightly seasoned they were one of the easiest ingredients he’d ever used. Fillet steak spoke for itself. It didn’t need much. He was experiencing a strange envy as he prepped the meal. Marvelled at how the universe could whisper its truths via something as simple as a cut of meat. To know what he was and find his place in the world would be a fine thing. He felt so far away from that right now.

Cooking the meal grounded him. The familiarity of the actions required to bring all the component parts together afforded him few distractions. Keeping an eye on everything. Bringing each section of the orchestra in on time so that the symphony was coherent and well received.

He recalled an ex-girlfriend cooking for him way back in the mists of his time. He politely watched her perform for him and did his best not to distract her whilst engaging with her sufficiently that they were sharing the moment. Another skill that he’d honed throughout his life. Silence was rude and disruptive. A deep and intense conversation detracted from the proceedings. Pairing the right subject to the moment was crucial to a good outcome.

The memory presented to him was all about timing. Sally had started cooking everything at the same time. Frying the chicken as she set the water to boil for the rice. Later, as they ate, she apologised for the rice. The white mush on the plate was closer to rice pudding. None of the food on the plate was inedible. He enjoyed it all for what it was. The meaning it held. This was love. He knew to accept it and to work with it. He never understood that his being open to her offerings was unusual. He’d put it down to his Northern upbringing. He’d had it ingrained in him to eat everything on the plate and to be grateful for what had been given to him. Perhaps he’d looked beyond the bland and overcooked dishes that were standard fare in the seventies and seen his mother’s love for him as the seasoning that made every dish palatable. Or maybe he was just plain hungry. Food though was never merely fuel as far as he was concerned.

Food was life. A necessity that he’d elevated to a love affair. He delighted in everything that passed his lips. Feasted upon it with his eyes. Inhaled its aroma. Later in his life he’d question whether he was finding love where he could. An attentive lover switching his desire from an empty bed to a full plate. His waistline gave away his love of food. But he was no glutton and he did not sully food by using it as a prop for his maladjustment to a world that sometimes confused him.

Now he was cooking the steaks as everything came to the finale. He used a lot of butter. Had seen this done one Saturday morning on TV as he nursed a well-earned hangover. Angling the pan and ladling the melted butter over the steak with a teaspoon. In a way, he felt he was cheating. The steak would be succulent and taste amazing thanks to this method of cooking. The excess butter and meat juices would be added to the sauce. He stirred port into the sauce right at the end. The thought of boiling off the alcohol content seemed wrong somehow.

Presentation was a weak point for him. His unexpected shyness was right there on the plate. He did not want to brag. The substance of the food was what counted. The smell was divine. A precursor to the coming taste. Dressing it up seemed excessive to him. Fluff and nonsense.

All the same, he placed the croutons in the centre of the plate. Spread the pate on the hot, crispy bread. Placed the rested steaks upon the bed he had made for them. Laying there naked and with no sheet to cover them. Merely a sheen of the sauce that he poured as opposed to drizzled. Cubed potatoes and sliced mushrooms festooned the surrounding area. He added sea salt to the steak and some cracked black pepper to the rest of the dish.

Bringing the plates to the table he decided to push the boat even further out than he’d intended. He found a candle in one of the kitchen draws and placed it in a candleholder in the centre of the table. Lighting it was fun. He’d always enjoyed playing with fire.

All that was left was the wine. He sighed as he realised he’d not allowed it to breathe. Not that he’d notice the difference. He was a philistine when it came to such things. The choice of red confirmed this. He’d opted for Chateau Neuf de Pape entirely down to its branding. This a posh wine that people bought to mark an occasion.

Skewering the cork he drew it forth and enjoyed the glug-glug of the liquid exiting the bottle. Placed the wine near the candle and held his glass to the light. Sniffed it. Drew the first taste across his tastebuds and savoured it. Then he sat down. The opposing wine glass remained empty. He considered addressing that absence. Found it inappropriate to do so.

Now he was here, his appetite faltered. His focus was the setting across from him. The food spoke volumes to him. A cacophony of chatter. He would find no peace here. He’d known that and yet the truth of it made him gag.

Bowing his head as though in prayer he looked upon his own plate. The perfume of the dish seduced him. He paused. Deferring gratification for a little longer. Took up his wine glass again and raised it in a silent toast before filling his mouth with the red liquid. The taste was exquisite. He had no hang ups as to whether it matched the notes of his meal. He was thirsty for exactly this.

Knife and fork in hand he sliced easily through the meat and pate. The crunch of the crouton was satisfying. His fork was loaded to almost school day proportions. He remembered many tellings-off for cramming his mouth brim full with grub. Struggling to close his jaws upon the food he’d rammed into his gob. Only at that point worrying that he may choke or even suffocate. There were no worries here. The fillet was as easy to eat as chicken breast. The explosion of flavour made him close his eyes and take a moment to contemplate his existence.

After that first foray into the contents of his plate, he took his time. He savoured every morsel and interspersed the food with tastes of the wine. Refilling his glass half way through the meal. Taking more than a half share from the bottle. Finding this fitting. Leaning into the entire experience. His experience shared with an empty seat. The symbolism of a lone diner with a hollow place setting accompanying him throughout his meal.

The fading light brought further radiance to the candlelight. The flame found its place in life and thrived. He lamented the final mouthful of food. He craved more. His hunger spiritual. Looking about him like a theatrical burglar with a bag over his shoulder emblazoned with the word swag, he almost snatched up the plate to lick the last of the sauce clean of it. Instead he used his right index finger and sucked it dry each time it cleaned a section of his plate.

Once done with his death row meal, he sat back and drank some more of his wine. The third and final glass was inevitable. He’d leave a dribble of wine though. The thought of the smallest quantity lurking in the bottom of the bottle tickled him. He raised his glass in another toast. This a night of salutations.

He smiled as the prospect of dessert arose. There was nothing sweet to follow with. Only the bitter taste of just desserts. The nature of consequences such as these fascinated him. He could taste what was to come and it soured the moment.

Night had now fallen and the candle flame risen. He watched it dance for him as he sipped at his wine. He had to make it last. An empty glass would leave him high and dry. Alone in a way that he could not countenance. He kept placing the glass down. But then he wondered what he could do with himself. Knew that were he to leave the table, the spell would be broken and that just would not do.

He tried not to look upon the untouched food opposite him as it congealed. Succumbing to rigor mortis. Meat was murder. This the scene of the crime. The sacrilege of the plate on the other side of the table hurt him more than he understood. He was communing with a crowd of wrongs. Blundering into a clearing and becoming a participant in a dark ritual. There were events that once set in motion took on a life of their own. They seemed a good idea at the time. The consequence of the idea was another thing entirely.

The sound of her key in his lock was far too loud. The noise interrupted him from a revere he hadn’t realised he was enjoying. The membrane of his life was ruptured and he spilled out into a world he could never be prepared for.

“Hiya!” the greeting automatic. An affectation to announce her arrival in the house, not an initiator for interaction. She strides in. All purpose. This is the script that she has written and enacts. But for once the stage is not set for her scene, “what’s this?”

She has seen the plate of food. Now she is looking askance at him. She experiences a moment of confusion and her mask slips for just one second. That’s all it takes. He needed that. To see her for what she truly is. Later, he will self-flagellate along a long and winding path to his own redemption. The error of his ways was his choosing her. That was all it took. One choice. But then some choices are renewed over and over again. That is the nature of love. To choose a person over all else. Prioritise them and make them the centre of your world.

“Dinner,” he tells her.

Now he has seen her true face there is no mistaking the disdain she holds for him. She is off. His stomach churns. He could throw up a thousand times and he would still be nauseous. He can once more taste the off milk he drank as a child. The bottles had been left by a radiator. Try as he might he could not rid himself of the toxicity that assailed his taste buds. Whenever he thought he was free from its tyranny he’d have a vivid flashback and fall prey to the moment when what had promised to be a delight turned into a nightmare. A vivid and relentless haunting that taught him there was a darker side to life.

She’s holding back. Assessing. Judging him by her own standards. Looking for the trap. Searching for a purchase on the situation so she can control it, “but you’ve eaten yours,” she says.

“You were otherwise engaged,” he tells her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks defensively.

“It means that you weren’t here,” he replies, “you were elsewhere.”

“I was at work!” her voice rises in both pitch and volume.

He nods and smiles a smile that is dry. There is no warmth in it. For once, he’s trying on her brand of mirroring for size. He drops it like a hot oven dish. He knows where that game leads and his flesh creeps at the prospect of taking another step in that direction.

“You are a very busy bee and ever so tired for all that industry,” he’s still nodding, “but where’s the honey? I don’t get to taste any of that sweet, delicious honey.”

“What are you on about?” she’s sneering at him now. Picks up the bottle of wine and begins pouring herself a glass of wine, but beyond the initial promise of a drink there is nothing. She barks her annoyance at having been denied a drink. Her entitlement to the entire contents of the bottle is fierce. She begrudges him everything that she believes is within her gift and therefore all hers.

He knows how easily he could lose his audience. That he will lose her is inevitable. There was no game plan here. He had not rehearsed any of this. He’s been making it up as he went along. All he knew was that he had to do something before the only part he was certain of. The confrontation. The moment of a truth that she will reject vehemently even as it is spoken. And now the time has come and it is as simple as reading a list, “Colin Anderson, Steve Griggs, John Marx, Mark Tomlinson, Ellen Grade, Sarah Bennett…” he trails off, “I could go on. And I know there are others beyond the list I have.”

“This is ridiculous!” she snarls.

“It is,” he agrees with her, and somehow all the fight goes out of him now he has told her he knows. He’s gotten this over the line and he’s done. He hopes he is not done for. That is an assessment that will take place many times in the coming months.

What follows in the aftermath of his mildly grand reveal is her repurposing of the irrefutable truth. She turns it all back upon him. None of it is her fault. He is to blame. For all of it. The affairs. The lies. The fact she doesn’t care for him and never has. Her blame game began in a childhood where she never felt loved. This here is her substitute for love.

He chose her to be the focus of his love. She allowed him to believe that she reciprocated this choice of his. Her real choice though was to appropriate him and paint him in the colours of the parents who failed to love her. Then she took her revenge out upon him. Hurt him for the hurt she experienced long before they ever crossed paths. Betrayed him from the off. Her strategy was a relentless clandestine attack from the very beginning, so that he could never hurt her.

This is the closest she will ever get to love.

As she uses ferociously hot words to forge yet another cage of his wrongs around him, he sits quietly and contemplates the plate of uneaten food and the empty seat beyond it. He cooks with love. Before him is his love for her and she is nowhere to be seen. The food will lay untouched until she brutally discards it in the trash. Their last supper follows the pattern of their lives together. He finds it so incredibly sad.

He stifles a burp that comes from nowhere. An uninvited guest at this table of woe. A taste of acid rises up his throat and he tastes the beginnings of indigestion. Something about this development amuses him. His inner voice is comically prudish in its warning for him not to laugh. Which is all the encouragement he needs to do so. His shoulders piston up and down and the motion of the forthcoming eruption prompts his capitulation to a laughter that he had not expected. A disarming laughter that has been a stranger in his life for far too long.

The tears that accompany his laughter are the only tears she deserves. She flees the room to the accompaniment of a symphony that was written for her from the outset. The joke is on her for her Bad Choice and it always will be. As the music of his inexplicable merriment fades, he takes a last look at the empty seat opposite him and wonders whether she was ever there. Wishes that were the case as his eyes fall upon his signature dish. He can’t take that back just the same as he can’t take his love back. But he understands that this is not the point of food cooked with love. Once the food is cooked and prepared it is no longer the chef’s. The next part of the culinary journey is out of his control. He has done all he can and more. That then is enough. The dish speaks for itself and for him. It is for others to listen and enjoy, or not as the case may be.