The Perfect Steak

At Proust's Kitchen we serve only one dish. It is steak. It is perfect. Heston Blumenthal ate here. It made him cry. Anthony Bourdain also came here and cried, and not just because we slapped him with a spatula for being, how you say, a complete bloody tool. No, they all come, they all cry. It is the perfection. Should you feel you may be worthy of eating in our perfect restaurant, please feel free to send us an email. If it sufficiently amuses us, we will send you an application form. You will almost certainly fail, but the enormous effort involved is, we assure you, worth it.

And how, you ask, can we be so confident ?  We can make the best steak in the world because we have the best cows in the world. And we treat them like royalty.

They live in resort-like splendour in a location we prefer not to disclose so that there is little risk of them being disturbed by tourists, paparazzi, and insanely-jealous rival restaurateurs. There are no fences. There is only freedom - physically and intellectually. And cos lettuce for breakfast. Or rocket. Whatever they want really. There is a menu.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays they listen to Schubert, on Fridays, Mendelssohn, especially the stuff he wrote when as young as twelve. So encouraging for anyone with a limited life span. All our animals, or preincarnated deliciousness as we like to think of them, have names rather than numbers or brands. They are free to choose their own. This past couple of years Joaquin and Tarquin have been popular for the males, Madison, Victoria, and Arpeggio for the girls. We feel it's essential for them to have a sense of identity and of course, manifest destiny. Make no mistake, they know what the future holds and they are completely reconciled to it.

There are regular philosophy tutorials as well as meditation and yoga sessions. Before they leave the farm they are all required to complete a thesis demonstrating that they have philosophically and spiritually come to terms with the universal cycle of which they are unequivocally about to become a part. They go willingly, joyfully even, to their deaths.

There is no slaughter. This is an ugly word, with ugly connotations. We prefer to think of this as an assisted suicide. Lead by a phalanx of naked New Zealand virgins scattering gardenia petals before them, our bovine friends settle in aesthetically pleasing and relaxing surrounds to enjoy a cognac and a cigar. Then it is all over.  No fear. No tears. It is destiny. It is done. I must stop reading Hemingway just before bedtime. Anyway:

This is how you begin the perfect steak. With it you will need the perfect wine. Well, first you need to raise a small army and invade France. Then, having annexed several hillside hectares in Medoc ....