Food: A Love Story

by Jim Gaffigan

  I’m actually relieved I inherited my father’s love of steak. Where I was raised in the Midwest, all the men around me seemed to love three things: fixing stuff, cars, and steak. I learned that a real man loves fixing stuff, cars, and steak. Well, at least I’ve got one of those three. If eating steak is manly, it is the only manly attribute I possess. I’m not handy. I can’t fix things. Whenever something breaks in our apartment, I just look at my wife sheepishly and say, “We should call someone.” I don’t even call. My wife calls. I can barely figure out the phone. When the handyman comes over, I just kind of silently watch him work. I don’t know what to say. “You want some brownies? My wife could bake us some brownies. I’d bake them, but I don’t know how to turn the oven on.” I try to act like I’m working on something more important. “Yeah, I’m more of a tech guy. I’m really good at computer stuff … like checking e-mail.”

  I’m just not manly. I don’t know what happened. The men in my family are manly. My dad and my brothers loved cars. I mean LOVED cars in a manly way. They’d talk about cars, go to car shows, and even stop and look at other people’s cars in a parking lot. I barely have an opinion on cars. I do know that trucks are manlier than cars. The most manly form of transportation is, of course, the pickup truck. My brother Mike has a pickup because he’s a MAN. Pickup commercials just give me anxiety. There’s always a voice-over bellowing, “You can pull one ton! Two tons! You can pull an aircraft carrier!” I always think, Why? Why do you need that? I only see people taking their pickup trucks to Cracker Barrel. My brother Mike, like many other pickup owners, never seems to be picking anything up in his pickup. I find this confusing. It’s like walking around with a big empty piece of luggage. “Are you about to travel somewhere?” “No, but I’m the type of guy who would.” To be fair, I really can’t judge. I don’t own a pickup—or even a car, for that matter. Whenever I go back home to Indiana to visit my brother Mitch, who is car obsessed, I rent a car and drive to his house from Chicago. We usually have the same conversation.

  MITCH: What kind of car did you rent?

  ME: I think it’s blue.

  MITCH: Is that four or six cylinders?

  ME: (pause) It has four wheels. I think. Wait, cylinders aren’t wheels, right?

  But steak … steak I get. If eating steak is manly, then I’m all man. I’m like a man and a half. I love steak so much, it’s actually the way I show affection for other men. “You’re such a good guy, I’m going to buy you a steak.” Men bond over steak. “We’ll sit and eat meat together and not talk about our families.” I recently toured for two weeks with my friend Tom. When I returned home, Jeannie asked, “How’s Tom’s family?” I don’t know. I only spent like twelve hours a day with the guy. I know he likes a medium-rare rib eye. What else is there to know?

  I order steaks from Omaha Steaks. Yes, I order my meat over the Internet, which I’m pretty sure is a sign of a problem. I guess I don’t want my steak shopping to cut into my steak-eating time. Ordering Omaha Steaks is very simple. It’s like Amazon.com for beef. A couple of days after I place my order, a Styrofoam cooler shows up. It’s the same type of cooler that I imagine they will deliver my replacement heart in. Omaha Steaks is nice enough to provide dry ice in case I’d like to make a bomb or something. Occasionally, when I grab my Omaha Steaks cooler out of the hallway I’ll make eye contact with a neighbor, who I’m sure will later tell his spouse, “Jim got another box of meat today. That apartment will be available in a couple weeks.” The only problem with Omaha Steaks as a company is that you can’t get rid of them. Once you order from them, they are like Jehovah’s Witnesses calling all the time.

  OMAHA STEAKS REP: Hey, you want some more steaks?

  ME: I just got a delivery yesterday.

  OMAHA STEAKS REP: How about some rib eyes?

  ME: I don’t need any more steak, thank you.

  OMAHA STEAKS REP: How about some filets? You want some filets?

  ME: Really. I’m fine with steaks.

  OMAHA STEAKS REP: Okay, I’ll call tomorrow.

  ME: Um …

  OMAHA STEAKS REP: Hey, you want some turkey? Ham?

  ME: I thought you were Omaha Steaks?

  OMAHA STEAKS REP: You want some drywall?

  ME: Aren’t you Omaha Steaks?

  OMAHA STEAKS REP: I’m right outside your window. I’m so lonely.

  I could never be a vegetarian for many reasons, but the main one is steak. Sure, bacon, bratwurst, and pastrami are pretty amazing, but steak is the soul of all carnivores. Steak is the embodiment of premium meat eating. I’m a meat lover, and steak is the tuxedo of meat. The priciest dish on most menus is the “surf and turf,” the steak and lobster. Who are they kidding? The steak is clearly driving the steak-and-lobster entrée. The steak is the headliner. There are way more people going for the steak and the lobster than people going for the lobster and the steak. The people who want the lobster are just ordering the lobster. Lobster’s appeal is all perception, and steak is truly extraordinary. Steak has its own knives. There aren’t steak restaurants. There are steakhouses. Steak gets a house. There’s no tunahouse. Tuna gets a can. I love a steakhouse. It’s really the perfect environment for eating a steak. They always seem like throwbacks to another era. A time when kale was just a weed in your backyard. All steakhouses seem to be dimly lit and covered in dark wood. They are usually decorated with a combination of red leather and red leather. You know there is a huge locker full of hanging carcasses, like five feet away. The waiters are no-nonsense pros. They approach in a gruff manner:

  WAITER: (deep, scratchy voice) Welcome. Let’s not beat around the bush. You getting a steak? We serve meat here. Want some meat?

  ME: Yes, ma’am.

  At Peter Luger’s in Brooklyn, the waiter usually won’t even let you order. “You’re all getting porterhouse.” Um, okay.

  Some steakhouses show you the meat raw. At places like Smith & Wollensky, a tray will be wheeled out with different cuts on it. One by one the waiter will pick up a glob of raw meat and thrust it at the table. “You can get this. You can get this.” Men are such visual animals that they’ll point at the fat-swirled hunk of flesh and grunt, “That one.” It’s all very simple and primal. At other restaurants, fancy non-steak items are prepared in a code of complexity: “Al dente.” “Braised.” “Flambéed.” But the way steak is cooked is understandable even to a monosyllabic caveman: “Rare.” “Medium.” “Well.” You barely even have to know how to talk.

  Me in the Smith & Wollensky meat locker.

  Of course, vegetables are also served at steakhouses, but they are called “side dishes.” Like their presence there is only justified by the existence of steak. They’re the entourage of the steak. And you can take them or leave them. The sides are not included with the purchase of steak. They are à la carte in steakhouses, like napkins on Spirit Airlines.

  Sides are never called “vegetables,” because what is done to vegetables in steakhouses makes them no longer qualify as vegetables.

  GRUFF WAITER: We have spinach cooked in ice cream. We also have a bowl of marshmallows with a dollop of yam. And our house specialty is a baked potato that we somehow stuffed with five sticks of butter. We also have a “diet potato” that is stuffed with only four sticks of butter.

  Everything about a steakhouse is manly, so it’s no surprise that sports heroes own steakhouses. I’ve been to Ditka’s, Elway’s, and Shula’s, which all had great steaks, but I’m pretty sure those NFL greats didn’t cook my steak. “Hey, you were good at football. Why don’t you open a meat restaurant? They have nothing to do with each other.” Nothing except the same demographic: manly men. Like me.

  My love of steakhouses is sincere. When I die, I would like to be buried in a steakhouse. Well, not buried. Just my casket on display in the dining room. That way people can come in, eat, and stare at me lying in state. Maybe someone will say, “Jim died too soon, but this steak was aged perfectly!” I don’t think people in steakhouses would mind that m
uch about my casket. People are in steakhouses for steak.

  PATRON: Why is there a casket in the middle of the room?

  WAITER: Oh, that is a comedian, Jim Gaffigan. His only wish was to …

  PATRON: I’ll have the rib eye, baked potato, and can I get blue cheese on the side?

  WAITER: I’ll bring that right away, Mrs. Gaffigan.

  I love steakhouses, but I realize there is something barbaric about the whole experience. Going to a place to eat cow hind parts. Eventually, eating steak won’t be socially acceptable. In two hundred years I’m sure the following conversation will take place:

  PERSON 1: Did you know that in 2014 people would sit in dark rooms and eat sliced-up cow by candlelight?

  PERSON 2: Not my ancestors! My ancestors have been vegan since they came over on the Mayflower. I read that on Ancestry.com.

  KOBE BEEF: THE DECADENT MEAT

  The Japanese are better at being human beings. They just are. Have you used a Japanese toilet? (I realize I’m bringing up a toilet in a food book, but I have a point.) The Japanese clearly saw toilet paper as archaic, barbaric, and probably the most disgusting part of human existence, and they fixed it. After using a Japanese toilet, you actually leave the bathroom cleaner than you were before you entered it. That is impressive. Granted, the Japanese are also selling used women’s underwear in vending machines at train stations, so I’m not saying they should take over or anything, but they analyzed something that we were all used to and found a way to make it better. They did the same thing with the steak. That’s pretty impressive, considering that the steak didn’t even need to be improved. After all, it was a steak to begin with. It’s sort of like someone adding another day to the weekend. What I’m talking about is, of course, Kobe beef.

  Kobe beef comes from cows that are fed beer and massaged with sake. When I first heard this, all I could think was I want to be Kobe beef. How do I sign up for that gig? Those must be some happy cows. Beers AND a massage? I’ve heard of factory farms, but now there are spa farms? I can just see the cows with slices of cucumber over their eyes, guiding the masseuse. “A little lower. Little lower, honey. Oh yeah! Right there! That’s a major stress knot.” Those cows have no idea they are on cow death row. They are just lost in euphoria. “You know what, honey? THIS cow could go for another beer. Ha, ha! (pointing up) You Japanese love design. You really made that sake bottle look like a giant hatchet.… Ow! I said NO deep tissue on the neck!” I guess it is a pretty humane way to go. The cows are probably too drunk to see the end coming.

  We are basically eating an intoxicated cow, and yet it seems appealing. “Yeah, that sounds good.” I suppose we can look forward to chicken raised on grain whiskey and pigs that are given champagne with their slop. Kobe beef is an indication of how decadent we have become. Not only do we live lives of luxury, now we need to eat things that have lived a life of luxury. I envision a demanding diner asking a waiter who’s just delivered his steak, “Did this cow go to private school? I only eat cows that went to private school. (chewing and nodding) It did. Do you have anything on your menu that owned a boat?”

  I’d like to know who came up with this idea for Kobe beef.

  FRIEND AT GRILL: Do you like that steak?

  STEAK EATER: (chewing) This is the best steak I’ve ever had. Amazing.

  FRIEND AT GRILL: You know, I fed that cow some beers.

  STEAK EATER: (chewing) Ha, ha. You got the cow drunk. That’s awesome.

  FRIEND AT GRILL: And then I massaged it.

  STEAK EATER: (stops chewing) What? Why? Why would you massage an animal you gave tons of alcohol to?

  FRIEND AT GRILL: The cow liked it.

  STEAK EATER: I’m not hungry anymore. I’m going to call Special Victims Unit.

  No matter who came up with it or why, in the end it just matters how something tastes. When I first tasted Kobe beef, my thought was We need to start massaging vegetables. I finally understood why Kobe beef is sold by the ounce like gold and silver. And, like all fine things sold by the ounce, its enjoyment comes at a cost. If you order a very large Kobe steak, be prepared for a credit check. Maybe even take out a policy. What if the Kobe beef accidently falls on the floor, or, even worse, some kid knocks their water over onto your plate? Then you’ll regret not getting flood insurance. Of course, you could always get imitation Kobe beef, “Wagyu” beef, which is the same thing but not from Japan. Like champagne that’s not from the Champagne region of France, Kobe beef not from Japan is, well, not Kobe beef. Wagyu beef is the sparkling wine of beef. Why is this important information? Take it from a steak expert like me with a distinguished palate: Who cares? They’re both amazing. Anyway, thank you, Japan, for the steak, the toilet, and now can you please fix my bald spot?

  NOT THE CITY IN ITALY

  On the continuum scale of meat, on one end is steak and on the other end is bologna. All other types of meat fall somewhere between these two extremes. Steak and bologna are the alpha and omega of meats. Steak is premium, and bologna is, well, bologna. If steak is the tuxedo of meat, then bologna is the stained Members Only jacket. Maybe that analogy did not make sense, but neither does bologna. I honestly don’t even know where bologna comes from. I know it’s a type of deli meat, but what is it? We know that ham and bacon come from pigs, and that hamburger comes from cows, and turkey and chicken come from, well, turkeys and chickens. Bologna is just bologna. No one is really sure what animal or animals produce bologna. Occasionally bologna will be labeled as “beef bologna,” but if you look really close you can see a tiny question mark next to the word “beef.” I like to imagine bologna is just a slice of a giant hot dog (a meat that also has questionable origins).

  Bologna isn’t even spelled close to the way is is pronounced. I’m not sure how we decided on the commonly used pronunciation.

  GUY 1: All right, how do you want to pronounce this word?

  GUY 2: “Baloney!”

  GUY 1: Uh, I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a g in the word.

  GUY 2: I don’t see no g. Let’s go with “baloney.”

  GUY 1: Okay. Well, the word does end with an a.

  GUY 2: Baloney. We’re going with baloney. Trust me, I decided on the pronunciation of the word colonel.

  Regardless of where the pronunciation (or the meat, for that matter) comes from, there are definitely negative connotations associated with bologna. “That’s a bunch of baloney.” “You’re full of baloney.” That kind of implies bologna makes you a liar. I enjoy bologna. I really do. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe that’s just the bologna talking. Its spelling is even baloney.

  Most of my childhood I ate bologna for lunch. A bologna sandwich with ketchup. This is valid proof of my white-trash heritage and that my parents were not very discerning about what I stuck into my mouth. “Jimmy, for lunch do you want bologna or rat poison?” Part of me is always a little surprised when I still see bologna on sale in the grocery store. I thought you only ate bologna when you were five years old in the ’70s or in prison. Otherwise, I imagine bologna getting banned along with trans fats and gigantic soft drinks.

  Bologna eater.

  As gross as the concept of bologna is in and of itself, the most revolting bologna is bologna that has olives in it. I never knew who that was for. Maybe there was a time when bologna was served in restaurants.

  WAITER: And how would you like that bologna prepared?

  MAN: I like my bologna like a martini, with an olive.

  WAITER: So, dirty?

  MAN: Very.

  The only thing positive I can say about bologna is that it is a half step above Spam, which actually does not appear anywhere on the meat continuum.

  BACON: THE CANDY OF MEAT

  If I bought this book, I’d probably go right to this section. Bacon is, after all, bacon. Bacon makes people happy. If you walked up to a stranger and said, “Bacon,” they would probably respond with a smile or a “Yes, please!” Everyone loves bacon, but bacon holds a special place in my heart and,
I guess, my stomach. My affection for bacon goes beyond any appropriate relationship a man should have with a food item. Even when I look at photos of a stack of crispy bacon, sent to me by the lunatics on Twitter, an involuntary “Aww” creeps out of my mouth like I’m looking at a newborn. Bacon is the candy of meats. Bacon even defies its categorization as a food and becomes a metaphor for wealth. You take care of your family by “bringing home the bacon.” When I bring home the bacon, I just buy more bacon. What else do we really want to spend our money on but bacon? I love everything about bacon. I even love the name Bacon. You can’t tell me some of the success of Kevin Bacon isn’t somehow tied to his name. After all, nobody wants to see a Kevin Tofu movie.

  MAN 1: Want to go see this movie with me?

  MAN 2: Who’s in it?

  MAN 1: Kevin Bacon.

  MAN 2: Sounds good.

  The Good

  The power of bacon seems to know no bounds. It’s not just the taste, which is like eating pure joy. The frying of bacon even sounds like applause. As it is cooked, the crackle of the grease cheers, “Yea, bacon!” The smell of bacon can make a vegetarian renounce their lifestyle. Bacon is so good it is used to improve other foods. If it weren’t for bacon, we probably wouldn’t know what a water chestnut is or why anyone would eat a fig. Bacon bits are like the fairy dust of the food community, sprinkling magical taste on undesirable dishes.