I flip the meat over. It hisses, almost as if it feels violated. The hue of the cooked side of the cutlet is perfect, a rich, deep brown, flecked with just a bit of black around the edges, where the fat has curled.
I throw a little more salt and pepper on the meat, sprinkle some more garlic powder on it and splash it with Worcestershire.
While the other side is cooking, I lay the table with a cobalt blue Fiesta ware plate, a real linen napkin, pewter flatware (including a sharp steak knife) and a wine glass, which I will fill with a nice Chianti I’ve already got breathing on the counter.
