There are few things I enjoy more than watching you all achieve excellence. Whether it is a rug maker in Bangladesh or a painter in Provence, when you create a thing of beauty I feel I have done something beautiful.
It is when you forget that what you’re creating is My creation and your talent is all My doing, that I have to pull you back and remind you that life is the greatest beauty of them all.
Richard is one of my favorites. He is a master in the kitchen and particularly good with one of my favorites, steak. But Richard needs to be reminded that being talented is only part of the reason you are all here. I hope he sees the humor when steak bites him back.
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He slammed the chef’s knife on the cutting board and screamed, “I’m just a chef Sam, not a Goddamn miracle worker!”
Richard was prone to temper tantrums and Sam knew it, but he tolerated his behavior because Richard cooked the best damn steak in Manhattan.
Even The New York Times critic agreed when he wrote, “The chef at Wyatt and Schumacher's has brought to steak what Michelangelo brought to interior design at the Sistine Chapel. A thing of divinity, his steak transcends the experience of nourishment to be a thing that only a culture like the Hindus who hold such reverence for the cow might describe as “Ānanda”, or ultimate joy.”
When Sam hired him he knew that Richard was something special. The steak he cooked that day melted in his mouth and gave him the sense of mother’s milk and chocolate. Whether it was the butter coating he dry aged the steaks with or the 800℉ coal fire he cooked it on, the steak was something out of this world and he knew his customers would appreciate it. That’s why he spent the $90,000 upgrading the kitchen when he accepted the position.
But Richard’s temper was wearing thin.
Richard didn’t talk anymore, but would fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. A delay in the dairy delivery one day sent him into a rage where he smashed every plate in the restaurant against the wall. A corky bottle of wine that was served one evening caused him to make the young waitress who was silly enough to serve it file for disability from PTSD.
Today’s temper tantrum involved a discussion on food costs. The wagyu beef imported from Japan was tripling in cost due to the trade war and Sam asked Richard if he could use a more affordable version that was made in the Netherlands. Richard had a minor outburst by his standards, this time only denting the vent hood with his fist and smashing a $600 bottle of balsamic vinegar on the floor.
“Damn it, Sam, if we go with that cheap shit I might as well hang it up and work at McDonalds” screamed Richard.
“But the Wagyu from Japan costs $300 a pound normally. It’s tripling in price now,” said Sam “the Netherlands beef is $450/pound. That's more expensive than what the wagyu would cost if we got it from Japan at the regular price”.
That was when Richard smashed the second bottle of balsamic on the floor.
“If you change the beef, you can find a new chef” said Richard, ripping off his apron and going out back to smoke a cigarette.
Sam told Manuel, the dishwasher, to clean up the two bottles of vinegar off the floor and went into the office to order a new case from his supplier. He shut the door and laid his head on his desk.
Richard sucked hard on the camel wide, he lit the second he stepped out the door. The pile of cigarette butts in the alley were a mixture of Marlboroughs and Newports, but mostly consisted of his Camel wides. He thought to himself counting the 100th crushed out Camel butt he saw in the pile, “I’m smoking too much”.
Manuel stepped out the door behind him to empty the mop bucket in the sewer and dump the broken glass in the dumpster. “Dude you're gonna have a heart attack if you don't learn to calm down” he said to Richard as the door closed behind him.
“I know it, but that asshole expects me to keep people paying $100 a steak when he cuts corners and cheap out on the beef” replied Richard.
“Maybe you need to relax a bit, take up a hobby or something” said Manuel, “My Brother-in-law just finished this court ordered anger therapy. He was arrested for smashing up a menu board at Popeye’s Chicken. They said he had to go therapy or spend 30 days in jail. Now he’s back and the dude is happier now”.
“Yeah maybe I do need to get some help” said Richard, “ but right now I gotta prep out the filets for the dinner service.”
“I’ll get the name of his therapist and give it to you if you want it?” said Manuel as Richard walked back inside.
He opened the dry age closest and pulled the butter coated tenderloin of beef from the rack. The trick was melting the butter first and mixing in Himalayan pink salt flakes with the Aji Charapita pepper and the balsamic-infused rosemary with the heritage gourmet garlic the guy in Flatbush grew for him special.
Then he chilled the butter for two days to really set in the flavor. Another 6 hours coming to room temperature and then massaging a ½ inch layer onto the six-month dry aged angus beef cuts before letting them sit for another two weeks in the dry storage closet he had specially built with virgin oak harvested from the Bavarian forest and shipped over from Germany in hermetically sealed containers.
Only after that was the meat ready for cutting and he did all the butchering himself. He scraped the butter mixture from the 20 pound filet and trimmed any brown dry bits left over from the dry aging process. He then laid the filet on the cutting board that he had specially etched with three inch hash marks to help him properly divide the filet tenderloin into portions.
When he cut the 15 steaks from the tenderloin, he slid the tray onto the staging rack and went in to get another tenderloin to prepare.
The dinner service started at precisely 5PM and as usual there was a glitch. The coal was not up to temperature yet and would need another hour to reach 800℉. When the first orders came in, he couldn’t fire the meat and went into a rage.
“Goddamn it Sam”, Richard started, “I told you to get those Goddamn guys to set the fire by Noon. Now we have no way to cook these fucking steaks and we have room full of guests that someone is gonna have to tell to go to Kennedy Fucking Fried Chicken because we can’t feed them at Wyatt and Schumacher's!!!”
Sam rolled his eyes and waited to see what the hot headed chef was gonna break first. Richard grabbed the stack of plates from on top of the salamander and started to throw them, but stopped.
“You know what Sam, I quit.” said Richard putting the plates back on the salamander.
“What? Your Fucking kidding me? I got one better, you're fired!’ said Sam, “ Get the fuck out!”.
“You’re firing me, said Richard, “You gotta lot of Goddamn gall to fire me, I make the best fucking steak in New York, maybe even the Nation.”
“Maybe you do and maybe you don't, but your are the biggest pain in the ass I have ever worked with and life is too fucking short- get the fuck out!” said Sam.
Richard was speechless. He had never been fired before and realized he had no idea where he would go. He quietly untied his apron and laid it on the counter. He collected his knife set and took off his chef’s hat and walked toward the back door.
As he walked past the dish room, Manuel stuck his head out and handed him a piece of paper and said, “My brother in laws therapist. Call him”.
Richard took the paper and shoved it in his pocket. He kicked the back door open and stepped out into the cold evening. He eyed the pile of cigarette butts and kicked it with his shoe, spreading them all over the alleyway.
He reached in his pocket as he walked by the dumpster and stopped to pull out a cigarette. He lifted one to his mouth and began to reach for the lighter in his pocket. He looked at the pack and then at the dumpster and decided now was a good time as any to quit. He threw the pack in the dumpster and spit the cigarette from his lips onto the ground.
He usually got a taxi home, but the evening was still early and he wanted time to think. He walked the 12 blocks to the Subway and descended the stairs to the platform. A man played the saxophone with a coke box at his feet with a twenty dollar bill on top of a bunch of change underneath.
He listened for a moment and tried to recognize the song. He knew it, he thought, but couldn’t place the words or the title. When the man stopped playing Richard walked over and placed a $5 bill in the box and asked the man, “What was that song?”
The man replied, “Don't Fence Me In”.
Richard smiled and began to recall the words when he heard the title. “Give me land, lots of land under starry skies above, Don't fence me in. Let me ride through the wide open country that I love, Don't fence me in”.
He walked home with the words echoing in his mind. He thought about the land and the cowboys. He thought about the cows wandering across the prairie and the freedom they all must enjoy out west. By the time he reached home he had a plan.
He wanted to drive out west and eat the best damn steak ever. He wanted to see the cows graze and know that the steak he was eating was walking right there the day before. He wanted to get in touch with his steak and know where it came from.
The next day, he traded in his Prius for a 1996 Chevy Suburban he found online in New Jersey and packed everything he owned into the back. He told his landlady that she could keep his deposit and filled out a card at the post office to stop his mail.
Driving across the GW Bridge, he slid a CD in the player and tuned the volume up. The crack of the guitar gave him chills as he sang along with The Killers at the top of his lungs, “I WANT TO RIDE TO THE RIDGE WHERE THE WEST COMMENCES. GAUZE AT THE MOON TILL I LOSE MY SENSES...DON'T FENCE ME IN”
___________________________________________________
Richard stopped in Chicago. He heard rumors that some of the best beef one could ever find was in the Windy City. He googled “best steak houses” and found there was one right next to the Hilton.
It was called “Gabbers” and he had heard of it before when he read an article about them in Restaurant Weekly. They supposedly had this hot young chef who was doing amazing things with steak.
Richard pulled into the hotel parking lot and stopped the car under the portico. A young black man with a mustache was standing at the concierge desk and Richard called out to him, “Hey Man, I'm looking for a good steak. How is this place Gabbers next door?”
The man, who seemed very used to answering questions like this said, “This is Chicago man, there ain't a bad steak anywhere in this town”.
Richard scoffed and said, “I bet there is, you’ve never had mine”
The man didn’t hear him as an older woman with two Bichon Frises got out of a limousine and became tangled around his legs.
Richard walked in the hotel and got a room for the night. He slid his keycard into the door and saw the 500-thread count Egyptian sheets on the bed and the finely polished cherry furniture strategically strewn about the room.
He grabbed a shower and called for a bottle of cabernet from room service. A knock at the door, some small chit chat with the server and a long pull of a very nice red wine from his glass. He pulled a white button down from his bag and ironed it on the bed and tied a perfect Double Windsor in his paisley tie, before sliding on his slacks, and slipping on oxblood wingtips and heading down to dinner.
The atmosphere was elegant with dark mahogany tables topped with white linen table cloths. The music was a soft jazz and the smell of three generations of charred meat hung in the air.
He ordered a Gibson with Tanqueray and enjoyed a crust of whole grain French bread with whipped sweet butter while he eyed the menu. They had the Wagyu beef tartar and the butter enrobed filet. They had a prime rib with rock salt crust and horseradish cream sauce. The menu looked pretty regular and there was nothing on it that really opened his eyes.
The waitress came over and he asked her name. “I’m Cassie” she said with a slight southern drawl.
“Well Cassie”, he said, “You don't sound like you're from Chicago?”
“No sir”, she said, embarrassed that she could not hide her accent, “I’m from Kentucky”
“Ah Kentucky”, he said, “ I should ask you about the bourbon here, but alas I came here for the steak. What is your best steak?”
She couldn’t quite decide if she disliked him yet or not. Her instincts told her, he was an asshole. “Well sir, we have a 16 ounce porterhouse that many people like? We also have a New York strip that our chef prepares with truffle oil and morels that is very popular.”
Both suggestions sounded very pedestrian to Richard who asked, “Have you ever heard of Wyatt and Schumacher's of New York?”
The young lady looked back at him with a blank expression.
“Clearly you haven’t,” he growled, “Well I was the chef there until yesterday and I have set out today on a mission to find the best steak in the Nation. That is, if I can find one that is any better than mine of course.”
She smiled at him blankly.
“Clearly your Kentucky sensibility doesn’t understand what I am saying. I want your best steak, so perhaps you should ask your chef and tell him who is asking for it”.
“And who shall I say is asking?” she asked with a smirk coming across her face.
“Tell him it is Richard Singleton of Wyatt and Schumacher's of New York. May I ask your name?”, he replied.
“Yes sir” she smiled, “It’s Cassie” and went to the kitchen.
She came back out and said, “The Chef says he will bring you his best steak and a bottle of your preferred wine. May I ask what you might like to have with your steak sir?”
He noticed her accent had disappeared and she sounded more northern than she had before.
“I would love a bottle of Browne Cabernet Sauvignon, 2018 if you have it?” asked Richard.
“Why yes I believe we do, I will bring it out for you immediately and the chef will be serving your steak,... personally.”
A few minutes past and the waitress showed back up with a bottle of wine. She showed him and he approved. She opened it and offered him the cork. He refused. She poured a taste into a glass and handed it to him to try.
He swirled the wine in the glass and held it to the light. He pushed his nose into the glass to take in the aroma and said, “This is quite lovely.”
She waited for him to finish his taste and offered him a clean glass into which she could pour a full glass. He said, “The dirty glass is fine”.
She poured the wine and went back to the kitchen.
Twenty minutes passed and he craned his neck to look around the restaurant for Cassie, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Richard looked at his watch and the time said 7:16.When he looked again, the time was 7:21. He resolved to himself that he would make a scene at 7:30
At 7:29, the doors to the kitchen opened and the chef came out with a sizzling steak on a platter. It was surrounded by baby glazed carrots, a dish of creamed spinach and a baked potato the size of a football.
He placed the platter on the table and introduced himself. “My name is Marco De Pasquina. I am the chef here at Gabbers and I understand you were the chef at Wyatt and Schumacher's of New York?”
“I am Richard Singleton formerly of New York”, he said . “I am crossing the country trying to discover the best steak in the Nation, or at least one better than I can make. What is this we are having tonight?.”
Marco said, “ This is a 20 ounce Porterhouse that I dry aged myself for six months in an apple wood locker constructed from an orchard in Washington State that was culled in 1921. It was kissed with rosemary infused bourbon while grilling on a pecan wood grill. The beauty of the pecan wood I find is that it reaches hotter temperatures with better flavor than other woods and pairs nicely with the aromas that are imparted from the Applewood aging process. I am sure you will tell me if I was successful or not.”
Richard was impressed with the presentation, but wanted to taste the meat to see if it was as good as it sounded. He said, “Thank you Marco for your offering. I look forward to trying it with this beautiful Browne I have been enjoying. I trust when I am done, you will join me for an aperitif so we might compare notes?”
Marco bowed and said, “ I would be honored sir”.
Richard cut into the steak and noted that it was cooked to a perfect medium rare. The crust on the outside was black but not charred and the blood red juices washed over the plate and absorbed into the baked potato. He raised the first bite to his mouth and let the warm red juice flow over all the regions of his taste buds, before sipping his wine to see how the two flavors mixed together on his palate.
He ate three quarters of the steak and half the baked potato. He ate all but one of the baby carrots and there was merely a small bite left in the creamed spinach when he laid his fork and knife down and picked up his napkin from his lap and placed it next to his plate.
Within seconds, Cassie returned from the kitchen and asked how he enjoyed the meal. He said, “ I would love to speak to Marco about it when he has a moment.”
She nodded her head and said, “I will let him know”.
She came back and cleared his plate and said, “Marco is in the middle of a large order right now. He will join you shortly”.
He nodded and poured the end of the bottle of wine into his glass.
He looked at his watch, 8:22. He figured the kitchen closed at 9 and that he would see Marco shortly after. He asked Cassie for a coffee with sambuca and a look at the desert menu. He ordered the cheesecake and she brought it to him with his coffee and sambuca.
At 9 O’clock he was finished with his coffee and desert and ready to leave, but Cassi reappeared and told him that Marco was just finishing up and would be out any minute.
At 9:30 he asked for the check and said to Cassie,, “If he wants to know how his steak was he can email me”.
She processed his card and brought the receipt back to him and said, “ Please stay, Marco has asked me to offer you a brandy that he will join you for immediately”. He agreed and took the brandy.
When she brought it, he palmed the glass and swirled the thick brown liquor in the snifter ensuring to get it all the way up the rim of the glass and coating the entire vessel. He leaned back and looked out the window and watched the moon glistening on the lake just beyond the patio out front.
Marco came out of the kitchen. His hair was a mess and he had sweat beading on his forehead. His sleeves were pulled up and the top buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned revealing the tee shirt he wore underneath.
“May I sit?” he asked Richard.
“Please do”, Richard replied.
“So what did you think?” he asked.
Richard searched his words and carefully chose what he was about to say. “I think it was extraordinary. The bourbon paired so nicely with the apple notes and nutty flavor of the pecan wood was spectacular. It was cooked to a perfect medium rare and the sear you got on the outside made my heart ache with satisfaction. The carrots and the spinach were delectable and I have never seen a potato that big in my life. I think you would have to pay for extra parking in New York City if you even wanted to bring something big on to the island.”
“That’s very nice of you to say, Thank you.” replied Marco.
“I do have one criticism though, it is not as good as mine” said Richard, “ With my steaks I enrobe them in compound butter for a full two weeks with some very special herbs and spices I have grown and have imported especially for me. Yours is good, but it’s not great.”
“Well I would expect nothing less from a chef of your caliber. It is just a shame that you are no longer employed”. Replied Marco smirking, “I understand you are heading west?”
“I am”, said Richard, “my search continues to find the best steak in the Nation.”
“Well then”, Marco said, “you must go to Hell’s Backbone”.
Richard heard the name and his heart skipped a beat. His eyes opened wide and he said, “What is that?”
“There is a tiny little place in the hills of Utah called Hell’s Backbone Steak House. It sits on the side of a road that leads to one of the deadliest bridges in the world that was named Hell’s Backbone because it crosses a canyon that is a mile and half deep. The thing that makes their steak so great, is the beef is raised as free ranging cattle on the sage brush and spring water that fills the canyons and mountains of southern Utah. You will not find a better tasting steak anywhere in the world”.
The thought of eating a steak looking at mountains overlooking a canyon that was a mile and half deep enthused Richard. He shook Marco’s hand and said, ‘Sir I can’t thank you enough for the steak and the tip. I have to go there. I’m leaving in the morning, however I do hope we meet again?”
Marco smiled and said, “Good luck on your search sir. Goodbye”.
Richard left the restaurant and made the short walk back to his hotel. He could barely sleep thinking of the adventure that awaited him. At first light, he showered and put on his hiking boots and checked out of the hotel.
He programmed Hell’s Backbone into his GPS and started driving. He broke the speed limit the entire way, and passed through Des Moines, Omaha and Denver where he could have found all sorts of great steakhouses. He declined to stop for anything however, that delayed the prize he sought in Utah.
He reached the Utah line in 16 hours and decided he had to stop for the night. It was midnight and his eyes were closing as he drove. He pulled over at a campsite on public lands and slept for a few hours. When he saw the sun rise again, he continued to drive and got to Hell’s Backbone Steak House at 4PM.
The sign in the window said they didn’t open until 5 and he decided to explore. He noticed that the restaurant didn’t overlook any kind of canyon but was rather a bucolic farm in an otherwise blank desert landscape. He wondered if everything else looked like that.
He was quite surprised when he drove just a half mile from the farm to find a narrow road that ran along a ridgeline next to a precipitous drop into a scrub-lined canyon. As he drove the winding roads, he saw the herds of cattle grazing free and wandering wild across the rugged landscape.
He wondered how they navigated the rock faces and desert conditions. The sage brush and burned up grasses couldn’t have enough water to sustain these 1500 pound giants he thought. They wandered freely along the road and through the canyons just the same, with colorful ear tags whipping their long horns and wagging jaws constantly chewing their cud.
He dreamed about what it would have been like to drive these cattle to market, and to his grill. Riding free along the thousands of washouts and cattle trails that hid behind every canyon wall on horseback throughout this desolate country. When he looked again his watch read 5:02 and he knew he could get into the restaurant. He was getting hungry.
His was the only car in the parking lot and he parked and walked up to the door. A middle aged woman with long grey hair and glasses answered the door and said, “Welcome to Hell’s Backbone, how can I help you?’
He said, “I hear you guys have the best steak in the Nation?”
She said, “ Yup we do, ….usually.”
“What do you mean usually”, asked Richard.
“Well” she said, “We don't have any steak right now as our truck hasn’t come for three weeks”.
“I just drove 24 hours from Chicago to get what I heard was the best steak in the Nation and you tell me that you're sold out?” he asked.
“Yup, but we got some nice pork chops if you're interested?” she replied.
“No I don't want you fucking pork chops, I want a steak” he screamed.
“Sir, you don't have to use that kind of language,” she said.
“The hell I don’t, I have been driving for days and was told you had steak here. I see cows walking all over the Goddamn place here. Put a bullet in one and put it front of me and I will carve off what I want. How can you be out of steak?”
“I'm sorry sir, but we are out and if you're gonna talk that I’ll have to ask you to leave” she said closing the door between them.
He turned and stormed back to his truck.
He tore out of the parking lot, kicking up the dry desert dust that obscured the sign for Hell’s Backbone Bridge. His speed was topping 80 mile an hour and he screamed at the top of his lungs. “OUT OF FUCKING BEEF? IT’S RIGHT HERE!!” he said pointing to a herd that was grazing along the road.
That was when he noticed the herd of cows standing in the road. He wailed on the horn. He thought they would move, but one just stood there staring at him chewing her cud. He swerved to miss her. The sudden motion made his tire blow and he slammed into a cow’s legs, flipping it onto his hood and smashing his windshield. The truck skidded sideways onto the bridge before it caught traction. When the tires gripped, the truck launched through the guard rail.
As it flew through the air, the stereo echoed through the vast canyon, “Don’t fence me in, Don’t Fence me in, Don’t fence me in”. When it landed, the explosion made the cows look up from their grazing. Moving on to a new patch of sage on another outcropping, they heard a small laugh come down from the heavens and went back to grazing.
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