Never let it ever be said I’m not worldly when it comes to satisfying my sophisticated palate. Over the years, living in New York City, Chicago, Massachusetts, Florida, Maine, and now back home in the Buckeye state, I am proud to admit I have had the privilege to indulge on some of the world’s finest cuisine, starting of course with fries and toast coming from our friends across the pond in France. Green sprouts that I understand are grown exclusively in Brussels. And my cheese of choice is imported from Switzerland. Why, I even have a secret source of chicken I partake in that arrives fried, all the way from Kentucky.
Still, given my druthers, I am a steak man. Midwest, grain or grass-fed cows. Free range, frolicking across the open pasture, or beef that resides in a cow condo until their number is called. I love them all, and Prime Rib is my cut of choice.
There is a beautiful respite of warm sand with breezy palm trees where someday I shall pen my next Pulitzer Prize-wanting collection of essays; imitating the role of a writer…unshaven, with unkempt hair, donning nothing more than a pair of cutoff shorts, a tattered over-sized denim shirt with what’s left of the sleeves rolled up, typing up a storm – in a modest bungalow with the sliding screen door open to enjoy the full benefits of the ocean air. On my scarred, dark brown desk sits my favorite beverage, a bottle of ice cold Goya Ginger Beer sweating on a paper napkin with notes scribbled on it, and my two loyal canine companions snoring on my bare feet under the desk. But not to worry, this won’t be my permanent station, only until the homeowners return, unexpectedly, and the authorities arrive to politely request my departure, again.
This humble hideaway is called, Captiva Island, located just off the coast of Sanibel Island, in Florida. On this land you’ll discover a restaurant called, The Bubble Room. Damaging winds from a recent hurricane closed it, but there are plans to reopen, or so I have been told by those very close to Mr. Bubble.
Among their slew of unique selections, The Bubble Room offers two slabs of prime rib from their eclectic menu; The Jane, and The Tarzan. The Jane is just a silly cut, in the humble 20 ounce range, or as I would call it, a “Meatpetizer.” What’s the point even lifting my knife and fork with that I ask? But The Tarzan, now we’re talkin’. The Tarzan cut weighs in at a sizzling 28-32 ounce range, well worth the effort to napkinize my lap, and simply pass on the baked potato. On second thought, bring on that hot, buttery sidekick, I’ll make up for all of this anyway with a diet soda.
I am blessed, or cursed, with a bottomless stomach, the inability to say “I’ve had enough” when it comes to two foods. In addition to the prime rib, my other weakness is cotton candy. Some question the health benefits of cotton candy, but all I know is for as fluffy as it is, it obviously doesn’t contribute to any sort of weight gain. Have you held a stick of cotton candy lately? I know I have.
Prime rib, like any other culinary work of art needs to take its time. You don’t rush it. It’s not microwave material. It’s not a minute-steak for crying out loud. It’s not even two-minute steak. And don’t even suggest it ride in the same carpool with its very distant steak cousin from the small touristy town of Salisbury, England.
There is a restaurant in Maine that touted being home to the $4.99 Prime Rib Lunch. As one who has dined on this prime cut of meat, I can truthfully admit with great confidence, if you’re on a budget, it’s better than no prime rib at all. I don’t want to say it was a thin cut, but we used to joke that they should save the plate and serve their prime rib on top of the local newspaper instead, so we could save time and read the news while eating our lunch. Okay, full disclosure here, I was the only one that offered that joke, over and over and over again, to the same disinterested waitress. A few years ago someone bought that restaurant, and dared to up that prime rib lunch deal an entire dollar, to $5.99. Oh the outrage!
Now let’s visit that crazy, mysterious, Au Jus, which is Latin for “Cow Juice.” Do I use it? I do. Do I sometimes dip in the small cup of horseradish sauce after the Au Jus dunk? Only when in Rome, because who wants to tempt one’s own fate challenging that long held proverb?
So whether it’s The Tarzan Cut in paradise, the cost-conscience cut in Maine, or any cut in-between, I think it is safe to surmise that in my world there is no such thing as a bad cut of prime rib. There are however, many restaurants that don’t know how to prepare it, and sadly, some of them have the audacity to call themselves a steakhouse. And that would be akin to calling me an award-worthy writer. Wait a minute…
Steve Burnette is an occasional contributor to the paper when space is needed to fill. He also serves as the executive director of the historic Murphy Theatre in downtown Wilmington, Ohio, and serves on the Board of Directors of the Ohio Arts Professionals Network.
