THINGS GO BETTER

I came from a home in which any meat that momma served was pot-roasted for six hours. Growing up, though, I had occasion to eat dinner in the homes of affluent friends. They frequently served a cut unknown to us peasants, “ribeye,” which was juicy, pink, marbled with fat, some of which had caramelized around the roast’s edges. Could this be a hors d’ouvres of the mythical Shor Ha-Bor that would be served upon the messiah’s arrival?

Ribeye, I vowed, would one day be the signature of my own arrival to affluence. On a rabbi’s salary, I never gained riches, but soon ribeye became the highlight of every family occasion, even as the price to serve six skyrocketed to over $120.

Then there are the occasions when we really wanted to impress our guests. We tried to do so recently with a ribeye roast that cost nearly $200, as we welcomed our new machatonim.

I had long believed that the less one played with a fine cut of meat the better: a little salt, pepper and perhaps some garlic, then straight into the oven. Recently, though, I had read in one of those silly hausfrau magazines about a “simply delicious, secret” glaze made from a list of exotic herbs and spices. Then, I violated the cardinal rule of haute cuisine: “Never experiment on recipes with guests.”

I bathed and rubbed the ribeye with the “secret” glaze until the ruby-red meat turned a morbid brown. Upon roasting, though, the ribeye was beautifully glazed and rich-pink within. As I presented my masterpiece, I smugly announced that the glaze was a “secret” recipe of herbs and spices, and that I would defy the guests to tell me what they were.

Before I collapsed into a puddle of humiliation, I remember only the pained expression that crossed each guest’s face as he or she attempted to savor the roast’s miserable “secret” glaze. Only my four-year-old granddaughter Sophie penetrated the secrecy and loudly, and correctly, announced, “Zayde, why did you pour Coca-Cola on the meat?”