Page 46 of Cuts like a Knife
Eventually the judges call time, dishes are finished, and the food is brought out to us in the dining room to try.
I look down at plate placed in front of me. It looks … okay, I guess. The meat looks expensive at least. It’s nicely seared. I don’t remember this particular dish being cooked on screen by any of the contestants. Then again, I wasn’t paying very close attention.
I’m not sure I feel comfortable eating food made by the brain trust that is whatever walking real housewife and sentient smoker’s cough produced this particular treat, but it’s been a long time since I last ate, and at least it’s not Savannah Jack’s salmonella chicken. I pick up my fork and take a tentative bite.
It’s awful, frankly. Just really … chewy? No other word comes to mind as my mouth works and works and works trying to reduce the piece of meat inside it into something I might be able to swallow.
In a moment, the PA is back at the side of our table.
“Could you, like, smile, please?” Her face is irritated and surprising stern.
“At what, exactly?” I ask.
“At the food?”
“But it’s bad.”
“But it was, like, free? So maybe just eat it?”
“Was it like free or was it actually free?” I ask her, pointedly164.
“Look, you might be in the shot. So can you, like, look like you’re enjoying it?”
“No, because it’s disgusting. It just took me half a lifetime to choke down one bite of whatever this is.”
“It’s steak.”
“If you say so.”
“He’s eating it.” She gestures to Gramps across the table, who is indeed devouring the contents of his plate with gusto.
He shrugs. Apparently shrugs are his favorite way to express himself.
“He’s clearly not very discerning,” I say.
“Whatever.” With a roll of her eyes, the PA turns on her heels and storms away. I win.
“If you’re not gonna eat that, give it here,” says Gramps.
I don’t comply.
“You want to eat this? Wow. I’m filled with a sense of confidence in your taste.”
“Taste! What the f— is taste? I never claimed to be a Michelin reviewer. This is just food. And it’s free, like the baby said. And it’s fine.”
“We must have different definitions for the word fine, then,” I say165.
“That may well be,” he says. “Regardless, the food is irrelevant. I’m hungry. It’s free. So I’m eating it. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
Instead of answering, he simply touches one finger to his nose.
“Sounds like a question I’d be asking myself if I were you,” he says, which is annoying.
“Well, you’re not me.”
He nods. “I’ll give you that much, kid.”
