Sportsmeat

...for my Detroit players. Oh wait, Pam doesn't eat meat. Does she?

But I digress. This post is intended to counteract the east coast meat media bias.

The time? Summer of 2001. BT was a young, impressionable summer associate (what pretentious law firms call interns) in Palo Alto, attending a firm-sponsored cocktail party. After running out of the usual boring chit chat, BT poses this question to one of the firm's partners: "What are the local legendary foods that I must try before I go home for the summer." After some contemplation (which shows you just how little soul the Silicon Valley has), said partner replies with two beautiful words:

Fred Steak.

That's how this beautiful relationship began.

I must first make a confession that might shock you -- I am not a steak fan. That's not to say I don't love meat. I do. But I'd choose a good hamburger (with its cheese/bacon/onion/tomato/avocado/chili/condiments, or some combination thereof) over a plain old steak 99 times out of 100. However, having been told that Fred Steak was the way to go, I had to give it a shot.

So I went to Shaub's in the Stanford Mall to find this enigmatically-named cut of meat (about which, I should note, it is unclear whether it is a Fred's Steak or a Fred Steak; I prefer the latter). Shaub's is a great little butcher shop with fresh meat, about 100 kinds of sausages, and pretty much anything you need to get your grill on. I hungrily walked the row of meat offerings, inspecting the tags on each to find the Fred Steak. As I was fruitlessly searching, the butcher stepped to the counter. "You looking for Fred Steak?" Apparently I hadn't been the first to make the trip. He pointed me to a case of unlabeled offerings. The case held about 30 jet black, slimy looking logs of what I guessed to be meat of some nature. They looked utterly disgusting (like the above picture). I looked questioningly to the butcher. He chuckled. "I'll give you a small one, just in case." By this man's measure, a small Fred Steak was a pound and a half. Though I must admit, I didn't see anything smaller.

I drove home doubtfully, cracked open an oat soda, and threw the Fred Steak in the oven (sadly, I had no grill that summer). The only warning given by the butcher was to be sure not to overcook. I went into the living room to watch some tv, and before I knew it, the entire apartment smelled amazing. As far as I could tell, some herbal elves had magically saturated the steak with savory goodness. I hurried to the kitchen to excitedly check on my meat, only to be knocked down a rung when it looked, well, like this.

Undaunted, I carved off a nice little chunk and took a bite. Heaven. Pure Heaven. The beef is incredibly tender and juicy. The flavor (from a secret marinade that some speculate includes molasses and coffee) was exquisite. The marinade apparently forms some sort of crust that hermetically seals the juices in. A pound and a half of true love.

Fred Steak has since become my go-to meal for big sporting event-watching and tailgating. Its quick and easy to grill, and I've yet to meat a carnivore who doesn't love it. I hereby declare the Fred Steak "The Best (meat) of the West."©