Well, except for that one time when I was in Australia's Northern Territory, staying in the kitschy and overpriced Ayers Rock Resort located near Uluru, Australia's infamous Red Centre. I stayed in a dorm room with 25 bunk beds--so, 50 people total--in the Outback Pioneer Lodge and Hotel arm of the compound.
Our part of the resort (the chintzy yet still overpriced part) was a well-intentioned "rustic and rowdy" destination (the website calls it "authentic," but please--what's authentic about sharing a room with 49 dirty travelers?). That meant that we got the outdoor bar and grill, bored families and nomadic recent college grads while the Sails in the Desert across the road got the 5-star restaurant, spa and heat and air conditioning. (Note: The Outback gets cold at night.)
The grill on the premises was not your typical American bar-and-grill. The Outback BBQ is a do-it-yourself eatery. Set up with 10 individual grilling stations, the Outback sells you the raw meat of your choosing (with regional favorites like kangaroo, emu and alligator) and leaves it up to you to cook it, sink-or-swim style, shoulder-to-shoulder with your dusty world-traveling neighbor in the middle of outback Australia nowhere. I can't imagine that it would be legal in the U.S. to sell raw meat to restaurant patrons and then leave it up to them to cook something safely edible--but few things in Australia are ordinary by most world standards.
I don't cook meat. But I recognized that I had three once-in-a-lifetime opportunities in front of me at the Outback BBQ with its Eric Clapton cover band goading me on in the background: one, an opportunity to barbecue in the land of all-things-barbecue; two, an opportunity to eat kangaroo meat in the land of kangaroos and other odd, unevolved marsupials (!!); and, three, the opportunity to barbecue my own marsupial meat in the land of all-things-barbecue. I flashed forward to an image of myself tucked safely back in my San Francisco home after two weeks on that red island continent, literally kicking myself for not indulging in a uniquely Australian BBQ experience--I knew I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't do it. I also suspected that I'd have a good story with the whole public-health-violation premise of the place.
So I bought two kangaroo skewers from the bored Aussies taking a break from Uni at the meat stand and tentatively approached an open grill. Most of my fellow grillers were in pairs or in threes, confidently grilling various meats and poultries, sharing watery Australian beers; I was alone and completely unversed in meats and barbecues. The pierced cubes of kangaroo on my plate were a throbbing red color and looked very, very raw. I observed my neighbors for a second and lined my skewers up on the grill like they did. I feigned comfort and confidence. What? Oh, this is nothing, I imagined saying to the two backpackers from Japan on my right, instructively pointing my tongs up and around at every other word. Where I'm from, we do this kind of grilling all the time. I noticed how the other grillers turned their skewers every few minutes. I turned mine once. A minute later I turned them a second time. I noticed after the second turn that my skewers were getting brown and crispy--oh God, I thought, how will I know if they're done? What if they're overcooked? How will I know?! I was given no instructions from the bored Aussies at the meat stand, and I was starting to work myself into a panic, envisioning my meat bursting into flames and singing my and my neighbors' eyebrows. The other grillers worked effortlessly. I started to sweat from the strain of containing my panic and inexperience. I flipped again. Brown. And again. Crispy. I poked at the meat. Nothing oozed from it, so it couldn't have been raw--of course, it's overcooked! I overcooked it! It's time! It's time!! I snatched the skewers off the grill, smacked them onto my plate and headed for the salad bar.
The reality was that the skewers were essentially raw with a thin coating of cooked on the outside. It had only been about 10 minutes between the time I bought the meat to when I reached the salad bar. Less than ten minutes is not long enough to cook kangaroo, friends. I felt ashamed at my idiocy and couldn't bear the thought of the humiliation I'd feel going back to my grilling station with a plate of bloodied salad dotted with sad cubes of two-thirds-raw kangaroo. Australians are crazy about meat. They'd have a field day with me and my pathetic American faux vegetarianism. So I ate as much as I could, working around the rawest bits, praying I wouldn't get violently ill with no health insurance in a country 10,000 miles away from home.
(Incidentally, a coworker of mine later told me about her first experience eating kangaroo--a plate of kangaroo carpaccio at an Australian restaurant in New York City.)
Although I don't cook meat, I've decided to give it another go for the holidays this year. I'm staying in San Francisco with girlfriend instead of going back to Michigan this year, and I want to make us a nice, cozy traditional holiday meal. Traditional means meat to me (hey, I'm from the Midwest!). However, I have no real grasp of how meats are different from each other (for example, the flavor difference between a Fillet Mignon and T-bone steak does not quickly come to me), so I relied on the awesome meat counter staff at Bi-Rite to help me out.
I don't know how to cook meat, I explained to them, except for a disastrous experience with kangaroo and a barbecue in Australia once.
They recommended lamb or goat. Girlfriend doesn't like lamb--this I was sure of. I was intrigued by the goat recommendation, though. I disregarded the quick blip of memory that flashed across my brain of girlfriend vehemently turning down a sample of goat butter at New Seasons--pshaw, Katherine, goat butter isn't the same thing as goat meat! The meat people then told me more. How to roast it, season it, make it tasty. They were directions I could follow and picture in my head, so I got on board. They wrapped up a shoulder for me. I turned from the counter.
No, girlfriend really doesn't like goat, my memory chided me. Don't you remember how she vehemently turned down that goat butter, and then told you how much she doesn't like goat? No, you lie! I hissed back. Oh...no. I remembered now. I texted her hoping she'd be into it anyway and got this back:
Girlfriend: I don't like goat!
This is why I don't cook meat! I can't do it right! Traditional was a stupid idea! I should just stick with what I know! Tofu stir-fry! Near tears in the wine aisle, I turned back to the meat people.
Girlfriend doesn't like goat, I said sheepishly [no pun intended].
They were helpful and took the wrapped-up shoulder from me. They pointed out other options. I could feel my Capacity for Overwhelmedness reach Full, and finally got down to business and straight-up asked the meat person which option I was more likely to mess up: the pork tenderloin or the prime rib.
I'm pretty sure the prime rib is more mess-up-able, but she convinced me to get it anyway (It was on sale! It was raised humanely! It sounds fancier!). I could tell you next about how, when I got home, I panicked about what to do with the slab of raw meat on my counter (Freeze or refrigerate? Remove from the package or keep it there? Does this mean I have to touch it??), but I think this is enough to help you understand how inept I am at meat.
I now have prime rib chillin' in my freezer and four days to figure out if I'm capable of preparing it...
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By the way, if you're ever in Australia, make Uluru a stop--it will blow your mind, and you can then say you've been to the Australian outback. More photos behind the image:
2 comments:
I don't like goat!
p.s. i heard bryn doesn't like goat
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