Andrew Has a Terrible Confession

I don't like steak.

It's not that I actively dislike steak. I'll eat it without any complaints should it be set before me. If I'm dragged to a seafood restaurant and there's steak on the menu ( as was the case with a certain opera singer and a Gainesville Bonefish), I'll happily order the steak. But as much as I've tried, I simply cannot conjure up any real fondness for steak.

Yes, I'm a straight American male, carnivorous, raised in Kansas City, and steak just makes me shrug. The easy response is that I've never had a truly good steak. Maybe that's true; I've never been to one of KC's famous steak houses and I've never paid $30 for a good piece of meat. Maybe I've never had the perfect steak, one that's juicy and tender without being soggy, has no fat around the edges to clear off and generally makes the diner see God upon biting into it. But that seems unlikely.

Or maybe I'm just lazy. See, eating a steak is work, and I don't like bringing work to the dinner table. You have to cut every bite. You have to cut away the fat. It's like the anti-IKEA of dinner. "Here's your meal. Some disassembly required."

I could deal with all that effort if the pay-off was worth it. But when I bite into a steak, I just don't understand the hype. It does nothing for me beyond provide nutrition and sustenance.

My name is Andrew. I'm 24 years old. And I don't like steak.