There's a book out there about blogging that's called No One Cares What You Had for Lunch. I haven't read it, but presumably it gives the aspiring blogger some ideas to spice up his posts so he's not reduced to torturing his readers with excruciating details about the contents of his lunch bucket.Today you are in for a treat because no one has written a book called No One Cares What You Had for Dinner Last Night. If such a book existed, I would refrain from telling you that last night I ate what I believe to have been the best meal of my life.
In fact, this meal was so satisfying that I told my wife that if for some reason I had a lapse in judgment or character and became a serial killer at some point in the future and that my serial-killing activities resulting in my arrest, trial, conviction, failed appeals to the Governor, and no stay of execution, that this meal would be my last requested meal. Sort of like, "what do you want on your Tombstone (Pizza) sort of meal." Although I don't intend to go down that path, at least my Death Row Last Meal Menu has been established so that my wife doesn't have to fret over that part of my dying process and she can instead be consumed with other minor details pertaining to the location of the checkbook, the existence or not of college savings plans and ask me questions like "Babe, just wondering--does your life insurance policy cover death by lethal injection?"
My wife and I actually celebrated Valentine's Day early because we were saving the rest of the weekend for more romantic activities like attending sports meetings and games and visiting prospective colleges for our son. And if those activities don’t end up being romantic enough, we'll try to clean the house. Or at least I may provide a romantic type of moral support (watching a college basketball game) as she cleans the house.
So our Valentine's Day was celebrated early at our favorite restaurant--J. Gilbert's in Overland Park, Kansas. J. Gilbert's prides itself in "Wood Fired Steaks" and has become our default or "go to" restaurant of choice. We've always enjoyed the food at J. Gilbert's, but last night it attained another level of excellence. It could have been the ambiance, or our seat by the fireplace or even the near starvation state we found ourselves in because of our entanglement with the South Beach Diet.
Sticking to the South Beach Diet might have been the key to success, as it guided our every selection. The appetizer of Beef Carpaccio was outstanding, although I had to avoid the accompanying bleu cheese cracker. Then we got down to business with the bleu cheese wedge salad and the surprise of the evening—butternut squash soup. As I ate this puree derived from fruit that’s part of the gourd family, I wondered why squash can’t just be squash. You’ve got your butternut squash and your acorn squash and your spaghetti squash. Squash seems to always have to have an adjective accompanying it. But then I started thinking about “summer squash” and the probability that I might receive about 27 loaves of zucchini bread next summer and thought I’d best get back to enjoying the soup.
We both ordered the same main course—a 4 oz. petite filet with four George’s Banks Scallops. I have to admit I’d never just had a steak that was only four ounces, but maybe that added to my appreciation of it. It was the best I’d ever had, period. It was even better than the ribeye I remembered having at Ponderosa as a kid. The scallops were joined by a double portion of sautéed spinach with an extra kick of garlic. This completed my high protein perfect storm.
Speaking of Perfect Storms, I stared admirably at my George’s Banks Scallops and thought of the dangerous fishing region from which these tasty morsels came. Then as my eyes glazed over two of the scallops turned into George Clooney’s eyes—and they were staring back at me. Creepy.
Fortunately my wife couldn’t eat all of her dinner. Usually she sends what she can’t finish my way, but last night I abstained. It was worth it when she gave them to me for today’s lunch (see above photo).
I would like to conclude by thanking you for allowing me to tell you about last night’s dinner. If this has really bored you, I encourage you to contact a literary agent and begin working on publishing that book called No One Cares What You Had for Dinner Last Night. Even though you had to read this column and thus haven’t escaped unscathed, it’s not too late for you to help your fellow man.
Now let’s see if I can find a mozzarella stick.