He chose his own New York cut from the refrigeration unit, and piled a plate high with rock melon and mini-beets. He had never been a greens man, claiming that if that had been God’s will, he would have been given long ears and thumpers. He sliced the jacket potatoes, and layered the slash with sour cream, chives and mustard. English, of course.
As he turned the steak - ensuring grill marks on a medium-rare steak requires concentration and timing to ensure it retains juicy tenderness - his spare hand stuttered a rapid rattle, a ‘Dubstep’ 4:4 rhythm against his left hip, followed by a segue into ‘Breaks’ accompanied by a guttural duub-duub. In less time than it takes to spin one track of vinyl, he had the steak in the tongs and was heading back to the table with a broad grin on his face.
‘Let’s eat! I’m starving.’