[Greetings, dopers! I de-lurk to tell the following marrowing tale at the request of and with special guest appearance by Lizochka. Vadim, our Russian friend, is often accused of being a vampire because of his accent. This story takes place in 2000, during the time we three were all starving college students, and thus willing to eat, erm, what we ate at the end of the story. Read on, if ye be not faint of heart (or a vegetarian)]
Vadim is scheduled to call upon Lizochka and myself during the dinner hour. Yet Lizochka and I are, uncommonly, out of ideas as to what to serve the amiable Russian. Upon a thorough search of the freezer, what should we behold but three fat and lovely steaks! Our mouths begin to water in unison.
But how do you cook steak?
It seems both Lizochka and I are more accustomed to eating our steak in restaurants. Neither of us has ever cooked a steak ourselves at home. We take a moment to deliberate. Hmm. Grill? Nay, that method is prohibited in our lease, despite the fact that we have a rather inviting porch. And it seems rather undignified that such exemplary steak specimens should be FRIED. We are stymied. It is in this moment, when all hope was lost, that Lizochka. Has. An. Idea.
We should BROIL the steak. Brillo!
This poses a fresh problem – we don’t know how to broil, either. Undeterred by this technicality, we soldier on. Perhaps the call of the steak is just too much to resist. Or perhaps we are subconsciously aware that should we fail to please our undead friend with our culinary offerings, he may instead take his repast from our tender young carotid arteries.
We turn the oven setting to broil. We lovingly place the steaks side by side (by side) in an old 8x8 baking pan, its Teflon coating gleaming in the 500watt light of our dining room light, affectionately named The SUN.
Vadeusha arrives shortly thereafter. Everything appears to be going swimmingly. Pleasant conversation, good friends, a distinct lack of bloodlust.
Then the smoke detector goes off. Did I say “goes off?” I meant, The smoke detector starts to emit a sound surely designed to mercifully cause human heads to explode before they can inhale the choking smoke.
BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP! BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP! BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP!
The noise is unbearable. At first all we can do is stare dumbly, our eardrums buzzing from the intensity of the sound. Then everyone reacts at once. I grab a copy News-Letter and waive it frantically at the shrieking appliance, while Lizochka rushes to the oven, and Vadim flies to the nearest window, no doubt intending to transform into a cloud of bats and be off, but is defeated by the window screen. Instead he glowers at my pathetic flapping, until at last, when my arms have begun to feel like overcooked spaghetti, the beeping stops.
Lizochka gives us a progress report. It seems that, in our ignorance, we have miscalculated both the extreme temperatures necessary to broil food and the temperatures Teflon can withstand before beginning to smoke and peel into a noisome mess. It seems there is a reason it was called a “baking” pan and not a “broiling” pan. The Teflon coating is smoking. It’s curling. It’s hurling great clouds of black, foul smelling smog into our abode. The smoke detector resumes its caterwauling.
Another round of panicky ventilation ensues before our ears know silence once again. In the brief respite, Lizochka informs me that although the baking pan will surely perish if we continue, the steaks look unharmed. And tasty.
We share a solemn moment, wordlessly realizing that we are, indeed, callously going to require an innocent and long-suffering baking pan to give its life in service to our dinner. Grim-faced, Lizochka returns to her position at the stove, and slowly I lift my newspaper, feeling the acid build-up stinging my muscles, the blood high in my face, my stomach lording over all with a defiant growl of desire.
It takes another hour for the pan to die.
In that time, we take turns gesticulating at the cruel smoke detector, checking on the progress of the meal, and fending off our German neighbors concerned for our safety. At first it seems they will call the authorities despite our protestations, but once Vadim talks to them in that low, calm voice of his, they suddenly become complacent, believing that everything is fine and they have very important ironing to do at home. One of them catches a spider on the landing as he goes.
It seems much longer before the steaks are done. They look as if they may yet be edible. I serve them with potatoes. The pan breathes its last hissing breath as Lizochka removes it from the oven and pours cold water into it. The apartment is fogged, murky, the very air hanging heavy with our guilt.
But we can still see our plates. Oh, yes.