Speaker 1: I was in a flesh eating mood last Sunday, and
so I and two other cannibals headed for a steakhouse
in midtown Manhattan. My beloved, the vegetarian, was up in Connecticut,
so we were free from moral censure. And we found
a joint on West fifty second Street with tables out
on the sidewalk, so we sat there. The carnivore section
of the menu was extensive and the prices were stunning.
The Japanese steaks cost more than my quarterly tuition at
the University of Minnesota back in nineteen sixty one. I'm
often shocked by prices these days. Tutsi romes used to
be penny candy, and now you pay seventy two dollars
and ninety nine cents for a box of thirty six
of them. But I stifle my shock at high prices,
not wanting to seem out of touch or sound like
a cheapskate. So I bit my tongue and ordered the
ten ounce medium rare meat from highly sensitive Japanese cattle
who are given emotional therapy and massaged daily and fed
kale and rudlum and mushrooms and are not slaughtered but unesthetized.
It was a lovely summer evening watching the people passing by.
This is the beauty of outdoor dining in New York,
the constant floor show, where individuality is allowed to blossom fully,
even extravagantly. You can watch harmless, crazy people, tattooed ladies,
kids who are creating a gender all their own, elderly
adolescent men. It's a show. My stake arrived and I
hated it. It was tender to the point of being gelatinous.
It was rare, not medium rare. It wasn't chewy as
steaks should be. It was sort of like eating raw liver.
But when the waiter came by to ask if everything
was okay, I said, not wanting to be a complainer
or seem unworthy of this great delicacy, I said, it's wonderful.
Other Midwesterners have this same problem. Hauled to the gallows
to be hanged for a crime we didn't commit. Asked
by the hangman if the noose is too tight, We'd say,
it's just fine, very comfortable, and if you don't mind,
please don't offer me a last cigarette. I quit smoking
years ago. Self advocacy was not taught in the Uenoka,
Minnesota public schools. Back in my day, we were taught
to be grateful for what we had. So I paid
for the dinner a sum of money I associate with
first class round trip airfare between New York and LA
and I went home, fell into bed, woke up around
three a m. Feeling an urgent need for Alca saltzer.
I took two tablets, which helped, and around six I
took two more. I felt queasy most of Monday. I
was okay by Tuesday. A true New Yorker would have
rejected the stake. He would have raised his voice to
the restaurant's manager. He might have posted devastating reviews of
the restaurant using the phrase food poisoning? Did I complain?
Are you kidding? Who do you think I am? I
am a Minnesotan, and I take this experience as a
lesson be who you are, not who you aren't. I
have rolled into many a drive up window under golden
arches and ordered a double quarter pounder and a medium
Vanilla shaykh and was perfectly happy with it. Why ask
for more? I used to live in a mansion in
Saint Paul, once owned by a lumber baron. Now my
Swedian eye live in a two bedroom apartment in Manhattan.
It suits us, the mansion obligated us to hold big
parties and me to wander through the crowd being charming.
But I am a recovering fundamentalist, and charm is a
language I am not fluent in. On Tuesday, I went
to le Guardia to fly home to Minnesota, and standing
outside Terminal Sea, I had an illuminating moment. Back in college,
I was an ambitious guy, wanted to be a writer,
a great writer, like A. J. Leebling and P. G.
Woodhouse and S. J. Perlman. Meanwhile, I put myself through
school working as a parking lot attendant, handling the six
a m rush, directing cars to park in double straight lines,
yelling at the independent minded bending drivers to my imperious
will to achieve maximum efficiency. And as I watched the
young guys in yellow vests directing drop offs at Terminal Sea,
I realized that maybe that was my true vocation. I
was good at it, I really was. I don't know
what those people at LaGuardia earn, but my guess is
that I wouldn't be paying round trip first class airfare
for a piece of meat. I'd be riding the subway
out to Rockaway and stop at a burger joint and
get me a double quarter pounder, and that would be
just five. A Prairie Home Companion's fiftieth anniversary two CD
set is packed with music, favorite sketches, and of course,
the news from Lake Wobegon. The Rollicking celebration was recorded
live at the Fitzgerald Theater. More info at Garrison Keeler
dot com