Food Memoir

Stella Weinbrenner

February 28th 2025

Food Lit Food memoir 

“Medium Rare, Darling”

In August, just after she's finished her summer fun, Aunt Tahasha visits us from her Greenwich summer home in West Florida. My mother would always take the wheel where it would be appropriate to take her. More often than not, we ended up at one of the nicest restaurants on Greenwich Ave, the Ginger Man. 

Upon our arrival, my brother and I scurried inside underneath my father’s arm that held the door open. My aunt was very old-fashioned, something that I love most about her; Tahsha confidently followed suit with the expectation that the door remained open for her. We followed our hostess to the back of the restaurant, past the grand staircase and antiques, settling in a comfy spot illuminated by the warm lighting of a chandelier. Tahsaha pulls out her chair, draping her cardigan over the back of her seat, before sitting cross-legged and gently setting her small, blocky Chloe bag on the table. 

Being 12, truthfully, all I really wanted was chicken nuggets and fries. I thought that adult food was always too complicated, a mis-match  of flavors that I thought should never even be thought to belong, usually something with too much spice that left me gulping water. It felt like I was locked out of the “adult club”;, meals like this were to be something reserved for refined taste.  In an attempt to stray from that immaturity, I ordered the steak and fries too.. When our waiter asked how I wanted it I didn't hesitate, ordering it “medium rare, ‘darling’”, just as she did. My mother just glared at me.,

 “I hope your eyes arent bigger than your stomach”.   

Our waitress turned the corner, holding a black platter on her shoulder and balancing two plates. As approaches our table she set the steaks down, fries falling from the sides of my overcrowded plate, and I was met with a steak as big as my face. It filled me with joy to know I shared something in common with Tahasha, our good taste, (though my mom always hated that this taste happened to be expensive). Before this moment, I had never ordered a steak before. It seemed “grown-up” to me, so I ordered exactly what this glamorous woman did. I reluctantly let my father cut into my steak, annoyed that I couldn't handle the meal myself. As I waited for him to finish sawing away, I looked up from my plate, slightly gazing left over to Tahasha cutting into her meal. There was no fumbling, just perfect slices, unlike my jagged attempts, just ease. Her bite caught just enough of the sauce to coat the steak without drowning it. Unlike me, she didn't spill on her perfectly manicured nails. While chewing, her expression did not change much, just a small nose-exhale, almost in relief, signaling her satisfaction.

After looking at her, embarrassed from shoveling fries into my mouth, I stabbed a piece of the steak. It tasted luxurious. The sauce that was laid on top was filled with fresh herbs, with the sharp flavors of garlic and peppers, the smell of the aromatics beckoning me in for a bite. A whisper of pink in the middle contrasted the crust on the top of the steak to make for a perfect bite, and the sauce they served with was rich and creamy to elevate the indulgence of the meal and cut the harsh smokiness of the steak's char.

Now, at 17, this meal has become the pinnacle of my ideas of my perception of luxury because it symbolizes eEvery accomplishment to be celebrated, when , or birthday we take the opportunity to order something luxurious. , and I always order the steak frites. What was first an attempt to mimic sophistication has become a reflection of who I am: . Someone who sees the value of indulging in small luxuries and growing into your taste. Tahsha shared more than just her taste with me on that day, she created a memory for me wrapped in the warmth of chandeliers and dim lighting, marking the start of my exploration with my meals.