She raised her eyebrows. “I’m with you, buddy. Preaching to the choir.” She spread another hunk of butter onto her roll. “But don’t you think we all need a little sweetness now and then? Isn’t that what makes life special?”
I pointed at her drink, some neon lemonade concoction. “Is that what that is? A little sweetness?”
“You sound jealous. Tell our server you want one. Look, here they come now.”
Two servers carried a multitude of plates on trays high above their heads. One started to announce the items, but Emma stopped them. “Ope! Actually, don’t tell us. He needs to guess the cuts. This is a test.”
The food runner behind our server kept subtly staring at me. She recognized me. Had to. I was grateful Emma picked the seat she did so I could face fewer people. I mostly didn’t mind getting recognized. People didn’t notice our team near as much as the local college’s football team, because Columbus isn’t a huge hockey town.
But I was scarred by the times people had known me. Generally, people were super nice. I was the hometown boy, after all. But for so long, the Rusties hadn’t been the strongest team, and the goalie often takes the brunt of the blame.
And some people were bold enough to tell me what they thought I was doing wrong. Couch coaches tried to force their half-baked opinions onto me, and even though I shouldn’t have taken it to heart, it was hard not to. When a goal got past me, their words rang in my ears. I’d gotten better at shaking it off over time, but the words still surfaced.
Lately, the Rusties were on a good run. I’d only lost two games in the last couple of months. And this server at Amarillo seemed unlikely to issue critiques.
“You want a lemonade, Harlan?” Emma’s voice cut into my thoughts.
“Oh, uh, no thanks. Can’t hit the hard stuff and drive. You know me.”
Both servers laughed and I felt better, even though it was a grandpa joke at best.
“Alright, Chef, what’s my challenge? Eat all four steaks?”
She laughed too. “I want you to tell me how done they are and how you think they did it. Bonus points for the cut.” She lifted her fork to examine a piece of steak. “Start with this one. And no, these aren’t the finest cuts of meat, but I want you to step away from all the fancy gadgets and equipment, and perfect ingredients. If you learn nothing else from me, I want you to learn how to make something amazing from something basic.”
I sliced a piece off the same plate and held it up to my eye level. “Medium rare. I bet they aren’t allowed to do rare here.” Emma’s soft nod let me know I was on the right track. “I don’t see how they could do it at scale other than sous vide and searing.”
She shook her head. “They don’t have that. Keep thinking. And what cut?”
I looked at the plate. “Based on the shape and probably not the taste, New York strip?”
“Good job. And I need you to get over the taste factor. These aren’t grass fed and grain finished to perfection, but this restaurant is full on a Monday night. Why do you think that is?”
I looked around the dining room. Peanut shells littered the floor. “Marketing. Being able to throw peanut shells.”
“Atmosphere, sure,” she agreed.
At other tables people celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, other special occasions, all at a chain restaurant. Maybe Emma was right. I’d gotten so caught up in perfect ingredients and prime conditions that I’d lost touch with what mattered: celebrating life with people you cared about. That insight fell in line with my “savor” Harlan 2.0 vow.
But Harlan 2.0 wasn’t fully formed yet, and I still had plenty of snarky asshole in me. “The illusion of luxury with steak.”
Emma nodded again. “Perceived quality. What else?” She studied me. “What does Coffeetown do in every airport, every corner cafe, every drive thru?”
“Serve shitty coffee,” I snarked.
“Consistency,” she corrected me and stuck her fork in a sopping wet green bean. “You can go into any Coffeetown in America and order a caramel crumble latte, and it will taste exactly the same as all the other ones. So here, people know the quality they can expect.”
I lifted a brow. “You’re not wrong.”
She winked, and warmth spread from my chest down my arms. I was actively not hitting on Emma, but she was pretty. I couldn’t put a finger on how old she was. Maybe early thirties? “I know I’m right. Now eat your steak.”
I forked a bite and held it up to toast her. “Here we go.”
She folded her hands on top of each other on the table. “So? How did they cook it? No sous vide.”
I shook my head. “I don’t see how they could cook so many at once without sous vide.”
She licked her lips and sat back, picking up her fork again. “Keep thinking.”
