Christmas Conversion

“Really?  You want me to cook a fillet mignon until it’s grey on the inside?  Jessie, why do you always have me ruin these beautiful steaks?”

I honestly can’t even recall how many times my stepdad Greg and I have had this conversation over the years.  What can I say?  I just like my meat well-done.  No one else in my family is this way.  They’re all on, over, and out bloody rare types, my husband included, but not me.  Somehow, just like my steaks, I turned out wrong.  I think some part of me still holds onto this childish idea that well-done steaks, like well-done pork or chicken, are simply healthier and more hygienic.  That’s the closest I can come to a good explanation about why I like the meat I eat cleansed with fire.

Needless to say, especially for those of you who read Donovan’s blog “Actually, I’ll have my steak raw,” there is a cultural norm here that is the well-done steak lover’s nightmare: raw meat is a delicacy.  I’ve had a few timid samples, a bite here and there, most notably the raw camel that I tried in Harar, but the mere idea of chowing down on a big, raw, bloody plate of beef has historically been enough to make me a little squeamish.

Well, this Christmas (of the Ethiopian variety), we got invited over to one of Donovan’s coworker’s homes to celebrate, which was really nice because we ended up spending that one at home on our own last year.  We arrived and, within moments, had some farso (unstrained, homebrewed beer) in hand and were comfortably seated in the family’s living room.   

I like my farso like I like my life: gritty!

Then our host proudly declared, “My wife is out seeing some neighbors right now, but don’t worry.  She and I have a very equal relationship, so I will cook for you!”

Now, this statement was pretty shocking, but also pretty awesome because most of the men that I’ve met around here would never even consider cooking if they had a wife to do it for them. 

Then he happily declared, “I will make you gorid gorid!”

“Oh, god, please no,” I thought to myself, though my polite smile did not betray my inner terror.  “Not gorid gorid.”

Gorid gorid is, simply put, bite sized chunks of raw beef, often served with either chili powder or a spice sauce.  Soon enough, he had finished slicing up the meat, and the two of us had a plate with at least a kilogram of raw meat chunks on the table in front of us.  As is the custom here, the family had already eaten before we got there, so this kilo was entirely for the two of us.

Then he said, “Sorry that it is not fresher.  I wanted to have you over when we slaughtered the bull (at 1 AM the previous night), but I knew that you were asleep.  Now it is not so good.  It is cold.”

It was only maybe 6 PM.  This raw pile of meat in front of us had literally been mooing about 17 hours before we ate it, and our host considered that regrettably past its prime.  Oh boy.  Still, I can’t stand the thought of turning down the hospitality of anyone who has been kind enough to invite me into their home for a holiday, so I dug right in.

OK, so maybe I didn't "dig right in" from the first bite.

Oh, wow, seriously?  Dang this stuff was good!  I honestly couldn’t believe it.  This was the most tender, melt in your mouth piece of meat I have had in country.  Normally the beef here is extremely tough, like eating a stale hunk of jerky tough, but not this.  I wound up holding my own against my carnivorous husband and ate about half a kilo of gorid gorid.  More to my surprise, it’s been about 4 days since then, and I’ve felt perfectly fine.  No gastric distress to speak of whatsoever!

Donovan keeps telling me, “Now, just because you liked the beef that way this time, it doesn’t mean that you have to start eating your steaks rare when we go home.”

And I keep replying, “Oh, I agree with that!  I still like my steaks cooked, but when can we go get some gorid gorid and beers at our favorite butcher shop?”

~Jessie