She looked at Knife. “I’d recommend the Makku. It’s an unfiltered rice beer, earthy but a little sweet. It should go well with the beef.”
Beyondunfiltered,earthy, andsweet, he had no idea what most of that meant, but he grinned and said, “What the hell. When in Rome, right?”
And if he didn’t like it, he could ask for their beer list and pick his own, but he’d give her this. For now.
She nodded to the server, who asked a few questions Tuesday answered quickly, and then it was just the two of them again.
“I take it you’ve been here before?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, but I brought you for the bone-in dry-aged premium feast. They know their meat here.”
She glanced at the grill. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
He watched her from across the table — the blouse and the four-inch heels, plus the pearl necklace he hadn’t noticed until they were in the parking lot, and he had no idea why the pearls were making his dick hard when her creamy cleavage was framed fucking perfectly by the shirt.
“Thank you for planning this,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing what’s next, but this place is great. If I’d known about it, I’d have probably checked it out. I was hesitant about the Brazilian steak place until I tried it, so we’ll see how the Korean stuff is.”
The waitress brought his beer, and he took a sip — and wasn’t sure, at first. It was nothing like any beer he’d ever had. He’d expected cloudy since she’d called it unfiltered, but he wasn’t a fan of pale, usually. It was softer than he expected, with a sweetness that seemed wrong, but it wasn’t overpowering, and he could clearly pick up on the grains.
He took a second sip and changed his mind. He could totally see it working with the spices and the beef.
“Good call,” he told her.
The banchan arrived next, a line of eight small dishes he leaned forward to examine with genuine interest —fermented, pickled dishes for the most part, and he tasted three before the server returned with the first cuts, and he carefully looked them over before putting two on the grill without fanfare.
“What were you checking for? Marbling?” Tuesday asked.
“Age. Sixty days.” He watched how the steaks reacted to the heat. “You can smell the difference from forty-five.”
“Can you taste it?”
“Yeah.” He looked up. “You will too, in a few minutes.”
A server brought Tuesday a green bottle and a shot glass, and she filled the small glass.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Soju.” She held the bottle up so he could see the yellow label. “Jinro 24, about the same proof as a light wine, but cleaner. Dry, little bit of grain, hint of white pepper.” She set the bottle down, lifted the shot glass, and then threw it back and drank it down — and set the glass back on the table with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it many times before.
“It’s what belongs with Korean BBQ,” she said while pouring another shot.
She offered it to him, and he sipped rather than throwing it back. She’d been right about theclean. This wasn’t bourbon by any stretch, but it wasn’t terrible. He tasted the white pepper, but wasn’t sure he would’ve if she hadn’t pointed it out. He’d had sake before, and this was like a lighter, leaner, slightly peppery cousin. He tossed the rest of the shot and slid the glassback to her.
“Thanks, but I think I like the beer better. I’m pretty sure you were right about it working well with the steaks.”
Between cooking and eating the beef, he tasted his way through the banchan dishes. Some of which had main ingredients he couldn’t entirely identify. It was a novel experience, but Tuesday answered all his questions.
He’d had kimchi before, fermented and hot as fuck, but not bad for vegetables. He wasn’t a fan of the pickled radish, however. The spinach and sesame concoction was a pleasant surprise, and he much appreciated the cool, garlicky cucumber slices in sesame oil as a way to cool off after the spice in fucking everything else.
“The banchan changes seasonally,” she said, when he told her he’d always ask for the vinegary potato dish he loved. “Whatever’s fresh.”
He nodded. That was a philosophy he understood completely, but… “Potatoes are fresh year-round. Technically.”
She only smiled and shook her head, then looked at the steaks, sizzling between them.
He’d taken charge of the grill, going so far as threatening to rap her knuckles with his fork when she reached for the tongs. That’s the way it goes when you bring a man who breaks down carcasses for a living to a steak place with a grill built into the table.
Sixty days of aging creates a flavor and texture nothing else can replicate. It concentrates the tissues down to the steak’s essential character, and gets rid of the moisture that dilutes it.
