D I S T I N C T L Y M O N T A N A M A G A Z I N E • S P R I N G 2 0 2 2
56
W
HEN I WAS A KID, WE WEREN'T EXACTLY RICH.
So there were rules as to what I could and couldn't
order when we went out to a restaurant. A burger?
Sure. Spaghetti and meatballs? Yeah, you can get that. But
if I had my eye on the porterhouse, my parents would sub-
tly direct me toward something else. "We think," they'd say,
"you'd like chicken fingers better."
Now, I'm not complaining, mind you. I totally get it. A
steak is a big investment—a really good one, with all the
trimmings, is bound to cost the average American at least a
few hours of his labor. Besides, who'd want to waste a piece
of meat that good on a dumb kid for whom macaroni and
cheese represents the apex of culinary accomplishment?
But, like everything that happens to us during our child-
hood, it would help to create the monster I am today. Because
now whenever I go to a restaurant with a price point north of
McDonald's, my eyes scan the menu for steaks. Whether it's
the $10 steak and eggs at a greasy spoon or the $47 ribeye at
a real fancy place, or the even more dreaded "market price"
cut only available to those in the know, I can't help myself.
Every time I tuck into one, I find myself hissing, "Look at me
now, Ma, no spaghetti for me!"
• • •
The tale of beef in these United States has always been a
love story. In 1812, seeking to portray himself as a man of
the people, Presidential candidate William Henry Harri-
son said that he had simple tastes: unsalted raw beef. Steak
is the American dish. With all due respect to vegetarians,
by SHERMAN CAHILL
A Romance
for the Ages
and
S
A
teak
merica
