Meet the Meat
Meet the Meat
It seems like the last time my friend Julie Benz and I chewed the fat together was a lifetime ago. In reality, though, it was in 2005, when we shared a big rambling house in the hills of Chianti for a few weeks of the glorious Tuscan summer (see The Chicken-Head Incident, at left, for more about that silly, idyllic time).
Since then, life has brought us some changes; more, perhaps, for Julie than for me. She’s made it big as Rita on Showtime's hit show Dexter, plus starred in a large handful of movies, made-for-TV and otherwise (see a little film called Rambo 4). It’s also brought her unmarried status, a very pretty new home, diminutive and devoted new canine companionship, and a vibrant, happy lifestyle that suits her just fine.
So, when Julie told me she was doing a lot of cooking, wanted to do even more, and specifically wanted to duplicate one of the meals we’d cherished in Tuscany, I only had to think for a split-second before hopping on the plane to head out to Los Angeles and make it happen (actually, I had personal and professional reasons to get out of the wet NY summer and hit the coast for three weeks, but this sounds better).
We discussed the menu on Facebook, email being so last-century. We planned to combine the cooking lesson with a dinner party for a few close buddies. Tippy-top on Julie’s list was a real bistecca Fiorentina, a feat I’d recently accomplished back in the Hudson Valley. Julie was also jonesing for our mutual friend Ronda’s famous white beans, and fried squash blossoms. (I thought it best not to mention my severe fear of frying—see “I’ll Fry For You Brigitina,” in Roadfoodie’s archives—figuring I could rope Julie or one of her friends into doing the actual frying.)
I sent Julie a shopping list, and she gamely went in search of all the rather exotic ingredients, including truffle oil for drizzling on our Flintstone-esque steaks. When this slim, uber-glam girl marched up to the butcher’s counter at Bristol Farms and asked for three two and a half-inch-thick porterhouse steaks, the guys looked at her like she was wacko. Evidently, no one had ever asked for steaks cut so thick. I got a frantic message: “Hope I didn’t screw up. Did you really want half-inch steaks?” Nope, excessive thickness is what makes a bistecca great (although it also makes them tricky to cook). Although she went to three different markets, however, zucchini blossoms were nowhere to be found. We subbed in fresh figs, paper-thin prosciutto, and some young pecorino for a hands-off appetizer.
What with Julie spending a small fortune on the meat, I was now (secretly) starting to sweat just a little. Was I up to the job of grilling these monster steaks to the perfect degree of doneness and delectability? Did I truly have the meat mojo? (Usually, I delegate the actual fire-tending to Jared—aka Cinderfella—but he was back in NY. And, I’d always done bistecca over hardwood charcoal, never gas. I called Jared for a phone conference. Ronda, of the famous beans, regularly cooks very thick filet steaks over gas, to great acclaim; she also offered her advice.)
As I'd directed, Julie had slathered the steaks in good olive oil on the morning of the dinner. As soon as I arrived (after first very carefully rassling with the pint-sized dogs), I seasoned them aggressively with Himalayan salt and freshly ground black pepper. Then I whipped up the beans, threw together a brand new and I think rather inspired version of our usual slivered fennel salad, and contemplated Julie’s great big, brand new gas grill.
(Part Two of Meet the Meat, along with links to recipes, will be posted next week.)