Years ago I spent a summer working in the Canadian wilderness, somewhere in northern

Quebec. Olaf, my boss, was a delightful man, a pleasure to work for, and while we were camping

in the wilds, we took turns preparing meals. Olaf's cooking skills were weak. He mostly knew

how to open cans and heat their contents on the camp stove. My kitchen skills weren't much

better. So whenever we got back into civilization and came upon the first small town, we hit the

first decent-looking restaurant. Although that was often just a mild improvement over our own

camp cooking, at least we didn't have to clean up.

One day, after camping for two weeks and driving for hours, we arrived at a remote

mining town. It was well past lunchtime and we were famished. A dubious-looking little diner

appeared to be our only choice for a meal. But all diners in these small towns are dubious-

looking with questionable menus.

We walked into the dining room, which held a dozen or so tables. Everything looked

ancient but reasonably clean—oilcloth, plastic flowers and plastic vases on each table with real

dust on them—a glass-fronted counter displaying the usual donuts and cakes—the type of place

that can surprise you with decent food, but don't count on it.

We were the only ones in the diner. A short, balding French Canadian cook covered by a

spotted off-white apron came out of the kitchen with the menu, a single sheet with very few

entries written in French. Olaf's eyes lit up at the word "steak," and even though there was no

indication in either English or French what kind of steak, or even what kind of animal the meat

came from, his selection was quick and unhesitating. He hadn't had any decent meat for some

time and a thick juicy steak was always his first choice when eating out.

I was a little more cautious and went with the "poisson de jour," figuring that there was

no way beef could be local or fresh but a slight chance that the fish might be.

The cook/waiter/busperson brought water and a basketful of very good French bread (a

promising start), then returned to the kitchen to prepare the orders. Within a few seconds, our

conversation and our thoughts about the upcoming meal were disturbed by loud thudding noises

coming from the other room. Was the place being remodeled? The pounding continued, actually

shaking the tiny building, then stopped. I hope they are not getting dust in our food, Olaf said.

Then we heard the sizzling sound of frying. Could that have been your steak being tenderized, I

asked Olaf jokingly?

Ten minutes later the meal was served, and Olaf's only consolation was that the steak

would have been completely inedible without some mechanical or chemical intervention. The

cook's sledge hammer technique allowed him to at least puncture the chunk of stuff on his plate

with a sharp knife. If my poisson of the day came from a local lake, it was a long time ago, but I

could at least cut the bland result with my fork.

Meat, the Universal Food

History hasn't recorded a human society that doesn't include meat in its diet. Animal

protein and fat have been a part of human nourishment since prehistoric times. For most people

in the western world, meat once a day is essential for food enjoyment. And that doesn't include

poultry, fish and shellfish. Why is meat so essential in the daily diet? For one thing, meat gives

immense eating pleasure, and for another, the human body instinctively recognizes and craves

the high nutritional value of meat—its chemical composition is similar to that of our own bodies

therefore eating meat closely approximates our bodies' chemical needs.

Serious Kitchen Play