My parents would cook steak for me as a kid and cut it up. I always called this “pink meat.” I had no idea that it wasn’t being cooked properly. I didn’t really care! I loved the stuff! So I guess I never had a chance to be grossed out by it mainly because I already like it before I made the connection about what was going on.
I think the drippings from a nice beef roast, in great quantities, fat included, make the best gravies and yorkshire Puddings. Pansauce for steak is replete without marrow, the choicest of food. What is a spotted dick without suet?
I’m sorry, that should read “deplete”, not “replete”. A beef dinner is deplete without the most mildly gamey and agreeable fat.
Sorry to the people. The sared cow is one tasty motherfucker. I’m sure I have a special ring in hell waiting for me.
Here’s a tip that my brother, who spent a summer as an assistant chef in a steakhouse, passed on to me. As a previous poster noted, you don’t tell the doneness of a steak by the temperature, but by the firmness. To judge that, just tap the meat briefly with your finger. No, it won’t burn you. In between the root of the index finger and the root of the thumb on your other hand is a little patch of muscle. Tap that as well. When your hand is relaxed, that firmness (or lack thereof) is “rare”. If you make a loose fist, then the firmness of that muscle is “medium” if you clench your fist, you’ve got “well”.
When I was a kid, we’d get taken out to the Country Club for a steak dinner on our birthdays. The steak always arrived with a little wooden sign stuck in it that said “med. rare” or whatever. Whatever happened to those little wooden stickers? I never see them any more.
I learned a similar trick: the feel of a relaxed thumb mound is rare. Move your thumb to the first knuckle of your index and you have medium-rare. Second finger is medium, and so on.
Do you need a map?
It’s not a poll, but a search for a reason. I think I found it. Did you bother to read the whole thread?
That doesn’t work for everyone – like I said earlier pertaining to myself, I’m just not sensitive enough. Everything feels like everything else. On my grill with the cuts of meat that I buy, I’ve got the timing down. But take that familiarity away, then it’s just a guess. An educated guess, of course, but nowhere near precise as if I had a thermometer. Even the thermometer requires and educated guess, though – you don’t want to be poking a whole lot of holes in a beautiful piece of steak.
Sorry, that was not called for.