Ah, the bachelor plate. A scant array of sliced cooked creature, a starch drowned in a bottled sauce- all that’s missing is a sad bit of broccoli tenuously clinging to the side, although for some gents that is even a step too far. The paradigm of razor-sharp solo male sustenance. This could be presented in a disposable foil tray, slung from a food truck or small take-out place to the same effect. Still, the simplicity can belie some elegance, stark though it may be.
I maintain the romantic notion that London broil is some kind of misunderstood cut of beef that is totally righteous and it’s my fault it keeps cooking up so mediocre and E doesn’t much care for it. I made another attempt: man versus meat, no consequences if I failed, since I was home alone I felt confident that I could find something constructive to do with the remains should things turn south. I brought my finest weaponry to bare: a 24 hour marinade in soy sauce, balsamic vinegar, sriracha and agave (I had no brown sugar at the time). I used my broiler- the single greatest piece of firepower I have in our new metro-style kitchen and things turned out okay, not great, but certainly not a disappointment. For less than $5/lb without a mega-sale, I felt okay about this. I ate deeply and it was good.
I had also been romanticizing the idea of a plate of brown rice covered with sriracha, which I cooked the night before. I prepared the entire meal save cooking the steak and a few final minutes on the rice the night before so I could have it fast when I got home from the gym. Unfortunately, in my zeal for spicy rice I overdid it with the sauce and had to suffer through a bit of mouth-fire. I guess this new kind I’ve been buying is spicier than the last one I had. I had some left over cabbage, so I added some slaw for the win. NBD.
It sucks when your significant other is outta town sometimes, but it’s nice to try something new or indulge a guilty pleasure. Like a giant slab of cow, for instance. Next time, friends, cook on!