A Carnivore’s Ode

Meat, Memory, and Milestones in Three Vignettes

Jasmine Senaveratna

Childhood. Baltimore. My papa Winnie’s beef tongue curry.

Perfectly slow-cooked chunks of tender tongue hiding in burbling sauce. The oils bubble on the surface as the bay leaves peek out here and there. I sit in my papa’s living room, full from the first round of snacks: fish cutlets, coconut sambol and papadum.

I am keenly aware of my greediness. I hear my father, in his typical fashion, dashing about his kitchen, genius and neurotic at the same time. He knows where everything is, and how to season without measure. He dashes about, chopping an onion, squeezing a lemon, mumbling to himself, questioning his actions. He tastes the curry sauce, and he disapproves. “Coriander, coriander!” he exclaims to himself.

I know how lucky I am, and at the same time how unconventional my home cooking may be in late 1990s Baltimore. My father was the cook at home and at work. Winston, a Sri Lankan man and merchant seaman who decided in 1977 to dock himself in the port city of Baltimore. (Why? Because he simply found the people to be nice there.) He found a job on the salad line in a restaurant in Little Italy, and in time became the chef of the restaurant.

He worked hard and loved his job, but hardly brought home or made Italian food; he loved his home food. He adored his mother, my aachchi, and learned to cook Sri Lankan food because of her. And so due to these little (but big) reasons, I can sit here and watch my amazing papa throw down.

I bite into the most tender morsels of tongue, and the flavor burst is familiar but always amazing. The perfect balance of yellow curry, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper and dried chilies—yet I can taste each spice distinctly. The aromatics of bay leaf. The brightness of lemon juice that cuts into the heft and richness of the tongue. The intense flavor of tongue (imagine beefier beef) and its texture. The warmth of the sauce, continuing to tenderize the meat.

I’m so happy.

…

Early 20s. Manhattan. Steak Tartare at Employees Only.

I got off work from Mas Farmhouse, my first restaurant job, in the village and decided to join a gentleman friend for a late-night bite. I often (too often) headed across the street with coworkers to Blue Ribbon Wine Bar, but I was in the mood to do something different.

I was not yet privy to where to go late-night as a restaurant newbie. “Employees Only. They have the best tartare.” Eye-roll. He says this, knowing I love the tartare at Blue Ribbon. All right then, I’m up for a challenge.

We trudge through the civilians—survivors and zombies of Saturday night—past security, and then past a four-deep bar to the back dining room. Ah. Alluring, cavernous, dimly lit peace. And a table for two available. Bingo.

We sit, and an eccentric cocktail waitress appears to set the mood. How I remember her: Jet black 1920s bob with bangs, crimson lipstick, dressed in all black. Quirky demeanor, a stream-of-consciousness way of speaking that appeals to me. She prances about the dining room, then to us and takes our order. Tartare and Parmesan fries, please and thank you.

Hand-cut steak tartare. Crostini. Greens. Prepared tableside. The dish could very well moo, and I think I’d be okay with that. Filet mignon with lemon and Worcestershire. Perfectly airy, crispy crostini. The meat itself is light, sweet, grassy. Giving texture. No awkward chewing. Spreads like butter. Each bite with earthy greens and crispy bread are perfect.

I am content in the dark recesses of this space. I allow myself to fully enjoy my meal, and step away from the world. From the fear of leaping from the healthcare field to restaurant work. From my (then) poor taste in suitors. From not knowing who I was and how I belonged in the big city.

Eat well. Start somewhere.

…

31. Carmel Valley. T-Bone in a cast-iron skillet, prepared by me.

I usually start this ritual with choosing a jazz playlist, gravitating towards Coltrane or Davis. Adulting; after years of dinner service, being accustomed to a constant reel of conversational murmur and restaurant playlists, I unclutter my brain with instrumental music. But I still want something upbeat and not as sentimental as Baker or Brubeck until later in the evening.

I open a bottle of red, my poor excuse to counter the cool climate of the Central Coast after sunset, and pour a glass for Claire. I place the T-bone on the counter to get it to room temperature. I slice a zucchini, some cauliflower, and trim a bunch of Mexican green onions to roast. I make sure my kosher salt, black peppercorns, and olive oil are in reach.

I dress the vegetables and place them on the top rack in the oven. I let them get a head start, then heat my cast iron skillet until it’s smoking. I salt the T-bone generously. I gently place the meat in the skillet, I watch it faithfully and allow it to develop a caramel crust. I wait three minutes, maybe a touch more. Flip.

The vegetables are almost done. Claire comes over and peeks over my shoulder with anticipation. I touch test the meat and know by how much it gives that it’s medium-rare. I take it off the heat, sprinkle a little pepper, dress it with a dollop of butter and let it rest.

Claire prepares the table. I light a candle and bring over the bottle of wine first, then go back to slice the steak. It’s tender and juicy, and I practice restraint until I bring it to the table. We sit, she smiles at me, and I say go for it.

She does the usual wiggle in her seat with delight. I play cool, but every time she’s happy with this dish it sends me over the moon. I sit back and look at the spread. Oven-roasted cebollas, sweet and vegetal, the other vegetables dressed with olive oil but not roasted too long to lose their texture, their character. The T-Bone, pink in the middle, juicy, decadent, but honest unto itself.

This revolution around the sun feels right.