Meat has never been high on my list of priorities; it is just one of those things that I grew up eating, so I continue to eat it. I am not cruel to animals, and I have never beaten an animal, but I have to admit, I am not ashamed to eat an animal. I am an Oregon woman, raised in the 1970's, and we Oregon women tend to eat meat, eggs, cheese, butter, and we have also been known to guzzle milk out of the carton. After all, we are a generation of women educated by our television sets, we were taught that imbibing copious amounts of milk would lead to "good bone density" and "fight the on-set of Osteoporosis." We are a husky group--not overweight--but well-rounded. Given the choice between a sole fillet and a red steak with baked potato and sour cream, we will most likely choose the latter, unless we are attempting to achieve a level of "cultivated femininity." Even in such circumstances, however, the British-accented voice of a woman from a television advertisement rings in our heads, "No more iron poor blood," and we inevitably choose the bloody red steak.
Sitting in Las Vegas's Luxor Hotel's Pharaoh's Pheast Restaurant, poised to receive an All-You-Can-Eat buffet plate, I recall that I am making the conscious effort to work on cultivating my femininity. The aroma of MEAT easily finds our table and I can hear the growls coming from my husband and sister's stomachs. They are ready for their feast of flesh at the Pharaoh's buffet; I, however, have decided that pasta salad and rice pilaf sound much more appetizing. After receiving our enormous plates, we make our way up to the buffet, which appears to be more of a four star grocery store, with every fruit, vegetable, meat entree, and dessert imaginable, complete with a taco and enchilada bar. I browse the salad aisle, aware that my sister and husband have directly bee-lined for the flesh carving corner. Without consent, my own stomach growls viciously, ready to inhale that first bite of prime rib, dripping with au jus and oozing fat. I toy with the tomatoes, consider the cabbage rolls, and contemplate the cantaloupe but my carnivorous instincts take hold of my sensibility and I too find myself in a direct path to the meat man. He is complete with a tall chef's hat, two large, freshly sharpened knives, and a grin from ear to ear, apparently consumed in the happiness of his job satisfaction, knowing that he is responsible for perfectly carved pieces of animal flesh. He is, after all, the meat carving man at Pharaoh's Pheast.
Timidly, but with much skill, I ask for one of the thin slices of prime rib already sitting on the carving block. He, however, is clairvoyant because he somehow knows the meat eating tendencies of Oregon women.
"You need more than one thin slice, no?"
"Yes, this is fine."
"No?"
"Yes."
"No extra charge. I will give you two thin ones to equal a big one and you can decide on the second. Yes?"
This seems reasonable enough, so I meekly accept the second piece of meat and justify the indulgence by telling myself that I will most definitely not be eating it.
When I arrive back at the table, my sister and husband have already put away half of the food on their plates, and I notice that my sister has encountered a similar situation at the carving board. Only her slabs of meat are an inch thick--each! She has one piece up on end, balanced between her knife, fork, and mouth and is gnawing on a portion of fat. The au jus is slowly dripping down her chin and she looks truly content.
"I notice you went through the same rigmarole at the carving board," I comment to her.
She looks up from her plate and asks, "What?" So I explain.
She laughs at me. "No! He tried to give me two thin pieces when I asked for two, but I told him that I paid my $11.50 and I want 'em big!" She and my husband both laugh heartily, exposing the gristle dangling between both of their front teeth. I realize that I have unknowingly been served my sister's reject meat and I suddenly feel sick to my stomach.
I plod through dinner, being careful to eat around the rejected meat, spending undeserved time on the dry and heavily salted pasta salad, as I listen to the two of them sigh again and again over their meat. They both agree that it is the best cut they have ever had. My sister finally leans in closely and whispers, "Are you going to eat that meat?"
I look at her in bewilderment. "Why?" I ask. She tells me that she is still hungry, and as that was the best prime rib she has ever had, she does not want mine to go to waste. "Have at it," I answer in disgust. My husband, who by this time has also become captivated by this fleshy indulgence, watches with me in amazement as she downs another two full pieces of prime rib.
"Wow! That was impressive!" He congratulates her on her meat eating abilities, and I become keenly aware of his caveman characteristics, as he seems more enthusiastic about this accomplishment than he does about my ability to speak three languages fluently. Envious of my sister's obviously endless stomach enzymes, I defiantly push my plate away and declare that I am done and could not eat another bite. My husband, however, is inspired by this carnivorous behavior of hers and announces that he is going up for dessert. He asks us if we want anything, and with a mouth full of baked potato and sour cream, my sister manages to squeak out, "Yes." With what I think is an utter lack of cultivated femininity, my sister says, "Yeah. Bring me another piece of meat. And don't forget the juice. Lots of juice."
Now, to appreciate this story fully, you need to know that my sister is extremely petite--5'2", 110 pounds, and often fluctuating between a size four and six. The thought of five slabs of prime rib fitting into her tiny stomach is quite unfathomable. As it turns out, I am not alone in my concern. My husband asks, "Are you sure? We don't want you to be sick all night," possibly more out of worry for himself, as the three of us are sharing an Egyptian room at the Luxor.
In the middle of another soggy bite of potato, she looks up at him and manages to gurgle, "No, I'll be fine. I am just craving red meat." Neither of us can disagree with this statement. Irrational, paranoid thoughts begin to invade my mind. I wonder if maybe she was bitten by a vampire posing as a bat at the campground we stayed at in New Mexico the night before. Or maybe the water was bad somewhere and she has suddenly become anemic and must have flesh to replenish her cells. Or maybe there is a hidden camera somewhere in Pharaoh's Pheast, waiting to spring out and laugh at my incredulity. Whatever the reason for this eating frenzy, I begin to see my sister in a whole new light.
