Friday, July 10, 2009

Where's the Beef?

One thing that never fails to amuse me is watching people eat gross stuff. Growing up, on any given Sunday at the Peking Duck House, I could be counted on to mix up a vile concoction of lobster sauce, egg roll filling and Diet Coke and offer to pay a dollar to anyone at the table who would drink it.

These days, it doesn’t cost a thing for me to watch as my husband and brother-in-law are faced with food challenges at my parents’ dinner table.
While some father-in-laws evaluate their daughter’s spouses based on income, sports knowledge or how well they treat them, my dad has another method. He wants to know: Can you eat like a man?
For those of you raised in a vegetarian household I should explain that eating like a man means consuming meat – preferably beef – at a too-low-to-be-served-in-a-restaurant temperature. Vegetables are to be eschewed, although potatoes are acceptable (although always eaten after, never instead of, meat). The appropriate beverage to wash down this meal is beer. Not imported beer. Not some berry-flavored summer brew. Budweiser.
Both my sister’s and my husband are modern men. They workout, calculate calories, fat and fiber before putting something in their mouths and love nothing more than a night at the sushi bar. But in the interest of making a good impression, all of this was set aside at our first Fourth of July barbeque together.
I smiled to myself as my mother lobbed several 16-oz. steaks on the grill and served them up rare, as per my father’s instructions. With their chins dripping with enough blood to make us think that Jason from Friday the 13th had paid a visit to the house, we girls watched as they chewed the “yummy” meat as my father looked on approvingly.
A few nights later, my husband took himself out of the running for Most Manly Son-in-Law. We were at a local Italian restaurant for dinner when he made the fatal mistake of ordering a salad – as a meal. Before my hubby could request his dressing on the side, my father peered at him over his menu. “You’re going to eat a WHAT?” he questioned, giving him a look that I was sure meant he had branded him a homosexual. Or a rabbit. Or a homosexual rabbit.
At the next Fourth of July, my brother-in-law knew there were no missteps to be taken. He arrived at the house, ready to eat like a man. If needed, he would brand, slay and skewer a moo-cow. But then my dad threw a curveball. This year, we were having lobsters. He wanted to know: Who was in?
My husband bowed out and asked for a burger. But my BIL was up for the challenge. Little did he know that this was not going to be the buttered and garnished lobster tail he was used to eating in fancy restaurants. When it was time for dinner, my dad placed the giant crustacean in front of him and handed him a tool kit complete with a cracker, a bib, a mallet, a flash light and a Makita cordless power saw.
We watched in amusement as BIL tried cracking open the claws, teasing the meat from the legs while pushing aside the antennae. “C’mon, get the meat!” my dad encouraged. “Get all of it!”
But I had the last laugh when, out to dinner together, I passed Dad a bite of my sushi-grade ahi tuna. Putting it in his mouth, he chewed, made a face and swallowed. “I can’t believe you got me to eat that!” he said, thoroughly disgusted. He was eating like a chick, and I was loving it.