This. Is. Raw.
I have to fight to refrain from scrunching my nose as I cut into the 6oz steak sitting on the plate in front of me. My gaze briefly flickers to glance at Marcel’s plate only to find that he’s halfway done with what I could tell was a 14oz cut.
This is one of the things that Levi and I never could agree on: steak should not be bleeding after it’s cooked.
“BuT iT’s NoT eVeN bLoOd.”
I can hear Levi’s voice ringing in my ears like it was just yesterday that we were arguing over rare and medium well.
With the smallest bite-size piece that I can stab my fork into, I reluctantly draw it into my mouth. I’m hesitant, chewing at three bites per minute until I decide to stop trying to convince myself that it’s not utterly gross and I swallow it down with a generous sip of water.
