This dish confuses me. Making it was absurdly easy but eating it invoked very conflicting emotions. It made me fell like…a barbaric ballerina.
I have never had a beef tartare before this. Not because it’s raw beef and definitely not for the fear of death, oh no no no my dear reader. I am a man! I don’t fear death and definitely not death from food! My fear…comes from the bill that follows said food. In an attempt to be more macho and frugal, I decided to make a dish with raw beef. What is more masculine than that?
Cutting up sirloin steaks: Manly!
Cooking for my lady: Very Manly!
Spooning tartare into a ring mold: Um…men can be artsy
Gently separating a quail egg yolk for garnish: Well…ummm
Touching up and making the dish look “pretty”: ……*sigh*
Scooping tartare with a teaspoon onto a multi-grain sesame cracker: I will grudgingly forfeit my man card…
Now excuse me while I go dead-lift, stare at a poster of Chuck Norris and listen to the Rocky soundtrack. I will continue to do this until I’m called in to audition for an Old Spice commercial or grow a beard that resembles that of a lumberjack’s. But before I go, here is some history.
Steak tartare was once believed to have originated from the Mongolians. Raw meat was said to have been placed between the horses’ back and the saddle to tenderize the meat as the Mongols rode. So gross. Nowadays, the French have modernized it with their flavors (Dijon mustard, capers, tabasco, Worcestershire sauce, and/or anchovies served on crostinis). I don’t have any of those in my pantry. I improvised; this is my take on a steak tartare! “Tartare a la Szechuan!”