Halal, Help and Humour

Had the great idea to make Chateaubriand last evening. STUPIDLY, having lived in Manhattan in the past--where I can pretty much be assured of getting cuts of meat without need of a Berlitz guide, I thought I could pretty much just walk into any butcher and ask.
Ah... silly me.
First Stop. C-Town. No such luck. Didn't have it, but at least she spoke English... well, sort of.
Then off to Trade Fair--deep in the heart of the Hood, however it's open 24 hours and USUALLY has everything and anything. Just never need to ask anyone who works there a question. It's not a language barrier because I asked in Spanish. They're just kind of ...dim. We went to the Halal butcher in the back (yes, the same place in which I was asked last December if goose was meat) and asked for tenderloin. He said yes, and handed us cheap sirloin, then argued that yes this WAS what we were looking for. Deciding not to take the meat and hurl it at the surly son of a bitch, I let my FAR more diplomatic roommate handle the situation.

Off to butcher number three.
Another Halal joint on Jamaica Blvd. Replete with no a/c, no refrigeration to speak of, flies, an unidentifiable smell of putrification and a glass counter full of severed and bloody GOAT HEADS.
I think I managed a gasp and clutch, before I almost ran to the car.
BAAAAAACK to C-town where Mrs. Kim gave us "good price" on steaks. Served that with demi-glace, Gratinee Dauphinois, Mussels steamed in Vermouth, butter, shallots, parsley, bay leaves, thyme, salt and pepper, my roommate's near perfection in the form of Ceviche and a Tarte Fraise which we just ate out of the plate without cutting it. "Family Style". Sounds better than, "We went at it like refugees".
Overwhelming heat, alleviated by a newly bought and oddly successful fan in the window and hauling my a/c down several flights of stairs.
Last big dinner of the Spring.

Two more weeks of this nonsense and then off to the mountains of North Carolina.

Lobster Night

Early morning yesterday and I staggered downstairs in the bathrobe and mismatched pajamas to start the coffee. I noticed the large ice chest on the butcher block, but didn't think much of it. Until it moved...
Screaming and vaulting over the couch, I remembered that my housemate had brought back lobsters from his trip to Maine.
Kept the little suckers on ice until I got home (New boss. In this novel, The Devil Prefers an Aisle Seat, but whatever) and started the lobster pot.
Tossed in some quartered white potatoes, thyme and corn along with the doomed crustaceans (yes, I know I am a Julia-holic-but in this case, simpler is better) and started clarifying the butter and lemon.
Time's up... Grabbed the tongs and hefted the little buggers out of the water. Perfectly timed, but annoyingly, the last one slipped off the tongs and fell back in the pot, splashing boiling water all over me. My souvenir of Lobster Night--aside from a growing waistline, is sadly a series of blisters across my stomach, hand and face.
Probably some sort of Jack-Vegetarian Kharma.