We had a marinated flank steak for dinner last night. The steak, a "London Broil", was purchased a few days ago - in pre-marinated state - from a butcher shop.
Marron', a good butcher shop is hard to find lately! My old one closed down last year (due to lack of kale, I suppose) and, to be honest, the butcher shops in these big fancy grocery stores just don't do it for me. Call me old-fashioned, but I want my meat from a big, red-faced guy named Ed and not some skinny little bambino named Jason, even if he is cute-as-a-button and full of good intentions.
It's like the other day. I go into the Walgreens to buy some shampoo and there's this wispy little blonde, maybe eighteen-years-old and with the face of a da Vinci, at the register. "You got it, girlfriend!" she chirped. (Excuse me?) I really didn't know how to respond to that. Then I decided it was charming because she was pretty and making an effort to be nice and fun and, in general, I'm not a crabby old bitch. At least, not in public.
Better there should be no witnesses.
The marinated steak was my husband Anthony's idea. He goes through these phases once in a while. We've been through this one already, but he can't remember anything anymore. And he's damn lucky I haven't found a way to exploit that situation. Yet.
As an experiment, I cut the meat in half and cooked it two ways:
- Baked in a 350 degree oven for 50 minutes. This is what the guy at the butcher shop told me to do. True, he was a skinny little bambino. But he looked like his name could've been Ed, so there's potential there;
- Broiled. London Broil. Capeesh? I figured there was probably a connection. Four minutes each side, but I think I should've done five.
The result of the experiment was that the baked was more tender and the broiled had a little more flavor. But it was a close call; both were delicious. Depends on how much time you have and/or if your broiler sets off the smoke detectors in your house.
Like mine. Anthony, used to hang a shower curtain over the kitchen doorway every time I broiled something, but he doesn't do that anymore because he never put the nails back up after we got our kitchen painted.
Or sort of painted. I was, unfortunately, out of town while that was going on. Anthony and the painter, in their wisdom, painted over the wallpaper and didn't paint the cabinets, because they decided that the cabinets were in "good shape" (of course they did). When I pointed out that this was bullshit, Anthony promised to wash them and touch them up. That was last November.
(Very "House Beautiful", Anthony. This is why nobody with ancestors from north of the Alps would have ever let you marry his daughter. So you got stuck with me, and that's your punishment.)
We have leftovers for a week, and now Anthony wants to go back and try the teriyaki-marinated pork tenderloin.
Good idea. So is painting the cabinets.