The Billionaire Loves His New Steakhouse

Here's a recommendation, in my words but straight from the mind of the billionaire: If you ever become a billionaire, you really must buy your own steakhouse. There's lots of things money can buy -- cars, planes, houses, politicians -- that'll never make you happy. But a good steakhouse never lets you down.

I was there ... And I know what I saw ... Of course I'm talking about Patsy's Steakhouse, the place on the east side of town, for my money the best steakhouse we have. And that goes double for the billionaire's money. Patsy's getting old, and ever since Ray died she's deserved more than this, a life of watching big mouthed senior citizens shovel it in, then going home alone. The billionaire asked me about it and I said, "I would," meaning should he buy the place outright? Patsy named her price and that was it, along with a few details about the deed.

I should back up a bit before I say that I sat down with the billionaire for a nice juicy steak. I was already at Patsy's, in the foyer, when in comes the billionaire and his retinue. He sees me and recognizes me, the second time in one day, and goes, "The Easter Bunny guy!" I motioned him over by the restrooms and told him in low tones, so as not to embarrass him, "Listen, bud, if you call me 'the Easter Bunny guy' one more time, I'm gonna kick your ass till you're walking on your hands. I'm so much more than that."* He studied my face for any shame I had, and seeing none, goes, "Point taken."

Then he bought the place and we sat down for a nice meal, on him. With each bite, first one, then another, then another, my eyes rolled back in my head and I was gasping for air. The billionaire matched me climax for climax, the meat was that good, and of course tender. You never want meat to melt in your mouth, but you do want a tenderness that at least hints at melting. Then you look down and see what's left. You hope it's a lot, but sooner or later, barring a miracle, it's down to the bone, or nothing. I lifted my shirt and showed the group my puffed out belly. The billionaire lifted his shirt, too, then outdid me by disrobing to his shorts and energy belt and exulting in the moment, "I feel like a new man!"**

I clinked my glass and called the whole restaurant to silence before raising my iced tea and proclaiming, "To the billionaire!" There were voices of agreement in response, the lower tones of men, the medium tones of women, and the higher tones of a couple kids, who somehow were unable to go to a sitter, or not trusted enough to be left home alone with their TV, video games, or computer. You see a family like that and you remember back to your own youth, stripping naked when the adults left and streaking around the timber with cousins. But I also missed many a steak dinner...

Now that we were fast friends -- The Billionaire and The Easter Bunny Pauper -- there was no telling what the future held. One thing I knew, once I became his most trusted confidant, both our lives would be enhanced.** He really appreciated me threatening to kick his ass.* But I know enough about group dynamics to know I'll need plenty of other gambits.***

As we left the steakhouse, my heart was glad when I looked up and saw Patsy drive by in her cool collectable pink Cadillac, the first fruits of her labors in building a steakhouse a billionaire would want. Such a wonderful guy. 

All hail my friend, the billionaire and his ass*, as yet unharmed.

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*Confident back talk is our greatest psychological leveler.
**I knew we'd make an irresistible syzygy.
***I'm the King of Group Dynamics.

Eating Steak, The Energy I Get

I strained to keep my eyes open. I was seriously so tired and weak I could've just dropped right there. This is horrible, I told myself, fighting to keep my vigor, alertness, and faculties. All because I was eating a cold salad ... waiting, waiting, wasting precious minutes till my steak would finally be done...

This is my oldest problem, becoming extremely lethargic while eating, unless it's steak. Then I feel the energy of Life Itself race through my being, giving me potency like a new man. I believe it's somehow related to the original energy of the original bull, the father of cattle.

Then at last it came, a big old perfectly cooked Kansas City Strip. I looked at it hungrily, feeling my potency remount as on angel wings, my hand quivering as I reached for the A1 and slathered that beautiful piece of meat with the sauce. The good stuff.

I dug in, tentatively, eating the first bite, and that was good enough by itself to be a prisoner's last meal. Speaking of angels, they rejoiced over the reddish middle. I was able to successfully add a couple of great stanzas to Handel's Messiah that they'll be singing at community sings this Christmas. Though an old man, I felt my oats again like a spry 14-year-old.

I seriously looked at the waitress, and she at me. I felt my cheeks flush, both from the perfect steak and the closeness we shared, and it was a contest to see which of us would ultimately have the willpower to pull away first. Which got much harder the closer we came to totally losing it, inch by inch. I could feel her hot breath, and surely she could feel mine; at that moment, when it was virtually too late, I pulled back and asked for another Coke.

I love a steak like this, although they make me go wild. If you ever want to take advantage of me, steak's the way to do it. Perfectly formed, perfectly cooked, nicely colored, a certain thickness, gnarly looking but still neat, just like the one she gave me.  The appearance alone would've technically been enough for me to lose it. I forget myself fast. Day to day I have terrific willpower, but with steak something triggers in my brain, and I'm in my danger zone. The steak's on the plate, the plate's in her hand, and what a beautiful hand, etc.

It's just the opposite with salad. I'm not a salad guy. A salad's cold and leaves me cold and lethargic. When it comes to salad I want it small, if at all, and the one I had was big. That meant I'd never be able to eat it. Salad's boring. And yet I hate to see anything go to waste, so it about wore me out. She asked me how the salad was and I said, "Boring," which made her perk up. "Good God, what am I dealing with?" I imagined her asking. Is this Undercover Boss? She didn't know if she was in for a scholarship or the chewing out of her life.

After a while, then, it became obvious I wasn't Undercover Boss, because I returned to the steak with my eyes rolled back in my head. I'm only halfway through and about to have kittens. I want it to go on and on. So I'm taking smaller bites and savoring them more and more. With the savoring, it's triggering key enzymes in my brain and my many glands. My full strength returns. My eyes are getting that Valentino look. In my mind's eye, she and I are working on it from opposite ends, with Valentino and Valentinette about to meet in the middle. It's so totally hot.

She's off, though, quickly, helping other customers. I'm only encouraged because she's checking on me multiple times, and the others at my table, who know we're clicking and yet how impossible it'll be for us to get together. She tells me she lives in the country, and I start thinking two things: 1) Country, such a vast term; and, 2) Animals live in the country. Crazy, natural animals going at it half the night, then curled up on a lazy morning by the stream.

I'm looking at the remains of my salad and the weakness returns; I'm about to doze off. I'm wishing I could crash. Forget the meal, let me sleep, perchance to dream and drift into fantasy land. The Coke's a Coke to die for, but I'm dying. And I have access to all the hot buns I might want, but I'm exhausted. Everything's a waste, except for the remainder of the steak, that beautiful steak! My strength returns.

This late in the meal, is it still as good as it was? Yes, the last bit is as good as the first. You'd think the spell would wear off, but I'm loving it. Just to key me up more, I put salt and pepper on the last bit. Then I slice it in thirds and dip it straight in the A1. It's dripping wet, the A1 soon rolling down my chin.

She comes around to get my debit card and sees me looking up at her, the A1 glistening, adding to the sensuous ambiance already in the allure of my burning eyes. With the very last piece of steak, I can easily picture us mouth-clamped to each of its little ends. "I'm working my way back to you, babe, with a burning love inside!" But she suddenly moves back, as if torn. A bus has arrived, she says, and they're bringing in 48 senior citizens, most of whom won't be able to stand in the lobby and wait. Meaning the rest of us have to clear out and let the bastards in.

But oh baby. That was a steak! The steak that brought us ... so very close, that close to losing it.   

Having Just Eaten A Grilled Steak

That's what it looked like before I got it all eaten. Now that I've eaten it, who knows what it looks like. Probably not as appetizing!

While it lasted, it was great. And it was fairly thick. Before I grilled it, I started thinking, you know, this might be too red inside, because what I know about grilling ... it's not much. Still, I did my best, cut into it a few times and checked the redness, then when I thought it'd be just right, pulled it off the fire and set it there proudly on my plate.

I started slicing into it, and it was good to my taste buds, very much like what I anticipated. A little A-1 sauce, and ummm-ummm, nice. And I kept going, too, not stopping -- stopping just long enough to take this picture -- till I was done. I should say, I had to quit giving my dog Underbrush food at the veterinarian's orders, since it's killing her, but this was so good, she got three bites. I don't think it'll do her any harm. She had the right of first refusal.

Now, virtually a half hour after the last bite, I'm still feeling pretty good. Although for me eating like that means I start losing my mental sharpness. My mental sharpness goes like this: First thing in the morning, it's 70 miles an hour in a 20 mph zone. Then it steadily loses mph till it's time for lunch. Then with lunch, it's crawling. The only way I'm able to write this post at all is out of simple delirium from such a great lunch.

You know, this is Easter. Going to church was number one of my blessings today, and a close runner-up, number one-B was this steak. The choir was knocking numbers out of the park, the children's message resonated with me (a black jellybean is sinful, a red one is Christ's cleansing blood, the white one is saved), and of course Pastor Wadd had a great resurrection message with his usual anti-fornication tie-in. Then I went to the store and actually ran into a guy from the church, a guy I don't know. I said, "Didn't I see you at my church?" He had some weird response, like, "I was there today," then he was more obscure and mysterious. All I wanted him to say was, "Hey, yeah, how are ya?" So I got my steak and left.

While eating it, I started thinking of one of my old cousins (not a first cousin) who we always called Cousin Beef. True story. The guy could grill like nobody's business. Never talked, just made satisfied eating noises, like I did above, with the ummmms; in fact, when I said it, that's what made me think of Beef. At one of our reunions I tried to talk to him about his cooking. And all he could do was make these noises. His wife had to translate for me, like, "He says, 'Yes, it came out really well.'" That kind of thing. It was all the same noises, maybe with a different stress here or there, and the wife always had the gift of interpretation. Wonder where Beef is -- I really don't know.

So here I sit, about to bust. Blessings and well-cooked beef to each one of you on Easter Sunday! That's a heck of a picture, isn't it? Look at that, I had two knives going! The knife on the right's the one I was checking the beef with while it was cooking, and I also used it to stir the corn. The other knife, even though I had it out for slicing the steak, I didn't use it. I used only the knife on the right.

Quick reading comprehension test: Which knife did I use for eating my steak? What did I do with the other one?