My Life at Steak

Dinner date with reality at 8pm.

I recently ate the best meal of my life. I was on a city break in Edinburgh, which was great, thanks, and because I live in fear of spontaneously deciding where to eat of an evening, I pre-booked a restaurant off the back of an Instagram reel I saw a week before. It would be great if I could tell you that it was the menu that pulled me in, but the fact of the matter is someone said they had Aesop soap in the loos and logic told me that any restaurant putting effort into their soap must be seasoning their food well.

Whirlybird – the restaurant – is in the Old Town, which is where we’d spent the day prior. By about one o’clock I had decided I didn’t like it, what with tripping over the cobbles and getting lost amongst the tour groups and the wind slapping my hair across my eyes so that I couldn’t see where I was going, even if I wanted to. But when we approached the restaurant, its big windows painted red framing people cooler than me as they sipped cocktails with olives bathing in them, and laughed vibrantly about whatever, I knew I wanted to dip my toes in. Test the water. Gauge the temperature.

There’s a song by Ben Folds called There’s Always Someone Cooler Than You. They were all in this restaurant.

Anyway, we sat down at the table, they brought us three glasses of sparkling rose which, honestly, happened to us everywhere we went on this trip, and we looked out the window at the view which was a real dopamine booster. For the first time in my life I found myself admiring bricks, and wondering why on earth there isn’t bunting lining my street at home? Wouldn’t everywhere look better with bunting?

I ordered the steak. This was the moment my life changed. Or, at least, I could picture how it would change. If quiet luxury were a piece of meat, this was it. It was so simple, but so perfect. One of those things where if you knew someone who could make a meal like that, you’d be in awe of them forever. You’d brag about getting an invite to their dinner parties. And it was in that moment that I decided that I would pull myself together and learn how to cook a steak. Like, a really good one.

The older I get (and I found my first grey hair at Christmas so time must be ticking), the more my perception of success changes. At twenty-six, I think the chicest thing someone can have aside from a pixie cut is a signature dish. Currently, mine is pasta in tomato sauce. A way to go, indeed, but life’s about the journey, isn’t it?

I wonder if it’s one of those things that teeters on the edge of attention-seeking. Do I want my friends to break into rapturous applause as I set their dinner plates in front of them? Absolutely. I’m only human!

Then, of course, because I never learn, there’s the thought that unravels in the back of my mind that believes one perfect meal could lead me to the love of my life. That if I can bake Madeleines with the perfect rise that someone will have to put a ring on it sooner or later. Inevitably, though, I would have to ask: do you love me or my Madeleines?

It happens all the time: stapling my hope on to objects or skills or events that might just change my life. I’m still waiting for the Random Tuesday where everything miraculously falls into place; the New Moon that makes me realise why all those slices of burnt toast were worth it. The perfect coat, the dream house, the magic carpet. I put my faith in fantasies and try and bring them to life.

For now, I’ll introduce myself to the frying pan. I’ll learn how to make chimichurri, and light a candle for the table. My friends will come to the door, and they’ll talk about work, and for a night we’ll laugh at ourselves and each other, and have second helpings, and dessert, and when they leave I’ll go to sleep giddy, and it will all be because I learned how to cook the perfect steak.