“Let us, therefore, start with the fundamental meal, the simplest thing a man can cook for himself and/or a guest broiled beefsteak. It is perfectly satisfactory for any occasion and for any meal of the day, even makes an excellent breakfast. Let us assume that the host in question knows nothing of cookery. What of it? He can read.”
So begins Section 2 of Chapter 1 of one of the great lost bibles of midcentury cooking, “A Man and His Meals,” a 1947 treasure by Fletcher Pratt and Robeson Bailey. Far from just a book of recipes, this witty, forceful and literary collection of musings and essays, while better suited to reading in the living room than in the kitchen, nonetheless imparts knowledge, both esoteric and exact, about how to cook.
After asserting that “pan-frying” would more correctly be termed “pan-broiling,” the authors continue the lesson.
“Remove the coat, roll up the sleeves, wash the hands, and rub salt and pepper into the meat. A thin coating of olive oil now goes over the meat; don’t just pour, spread with the digits, it will not soak in, and the sensation on the fingers will wear away in time. Pan-broiling suggests a heavy cast-iron or cast-aluminum pan; in either case it should be so hot it will spit if you put a drop of water in it. Plop in the steak; let it sear about two minutes on each side without worry about the smoke and noise; reduce the heat and cook until it’s done. If the steak is thin, it will be done in four minutes or less; if it’s thick it will take longer. But if you must make an error, err on the side of under-cooking … it is a crime against beef and beef-eating man to overcook any steak.”
Next, a note about how to use a knife to check for doneness, about how the taste of rare meat may be an acquired one but that “acquired tastes are generally the most satisfactory,” and how overcooked beef (or lamb, or pork) loses its beefiness (or lambiness or porkiness) to the detriment of the meal, they go on:
“The steak is done. Put it on a dinner plate, slice some tomatoes to go with it, cut the bread, pour out a bottle of wine, and sit down to your meal. That’s all there is to it, and it ought to be plenty.”
What I value most about this passage, and this book, is precisely what’s missing in the vast majority of contemporary writing and other media focused on food and cookery: an assumption of intelligence on the part of the reader, a disdain for oversimplification, for pedantry, and for crassness-for-crassness’ sake. There is an evident belief that communicating about food is an exercise in connecting with, not distinguishing oneself from, the reader.
And it’s useful besides, giving a crystal-clear picture of how to cook a steak.
Food and cooking, and the culture they feed, are about sharing experiences among, not creating distinctions between, people. Food’s illumination — in word, in image, and on YouTube, is at its best when it does the same.
