I was going to use this for a creative sketch declamation, but wasn’t sure if it quite fit the guidelines. So.
Many, many, many moons ago, I had my first rare steak.
Malevolently. That was how it felt like the steak was staring at me. It was the kind of steak that had probably sat on someone nice in a previous life. I had ordered my bloody slab of cow medium to well done, and this was just so…not. I mean, the edges were singed and all, but I prefer my food dead, thank you very much.
Anyway, there it was, sitting on my plate like it owned the place. The cook had refused to take it back, jabbering something in Dutch about the World Cup. Apparently Holland was playing Spain and, being smack-dab in the middle of Amsterdam, he didn’t feel obliged to provide customer satisfaction on such an important night. Evidently he wasn’t concerned about customer safety, either, because this was precisely the sort of steak that might at any moment pull a Calvin-and-Hobbes move and attack me with my own fork. My personal theory was that he too was intimidated by the gimlet eye of the beastly thing, and was secretly chortling about it back in the kitchen. And still the steak just sat there oozing blood, defying me, practically daring me to try to eat it.