Office Beef (Insurance Agent)
by Amanda—Age 33—Toronto, Ontario
It’s 10:15 and the office ladies are sharing recipes for roast beef: the best way to oven-cook, to barbecue, to stew the remains. They speak of optimal cuts, broad flat brushes, rotisserie rods and the best utensils for boring holes the perfect depth and diameter to accommodate peeled garlic. The foundation, I learn, for a nice moist rump is to slather the raw beef in condiment, sear it, then lower the temperature and have patience. No opening the grill-hatch to monitor browning, no peeling back the foil to peer into the roasting pan. Park yourself on the deck or in the TV room, have a few wine coolers with the other wives and let the mustard work its private magic.
Apparently one need not splurge on ridiculous fancy mustard—an ordinary yellow-plastic squeeze-bottle variety, the same as for burgers and ‘dogs, is more economical, and geez, do you know what they charge at those gourmet markets? Outrageous. Practically criminal.
There are basics, but each lady employs a minor deviation from the universal instructions, individualizing her technique and thereby the meal that is brought to table. Each takes pride in casting her voice loudly above the others, pronouncing the superiority of basting over a single liberal mustard application, poo-pooing the addition of potatoes and carrots to the pan, or advising that in her opinion, Carla’s cooking duration is far too short for these days of mad-cow and such.
I feel left out as this culinary moment is shared by the sporty mom from accounting, her butch yet fancy supervisor, the 22-year old clerk who has never been outside her hometown, the 25-year old temp who seems up for anything yet excited about nothing, and the Filipino office manager who agonizes over minute daily operations. Until now, I’ve prided myself on having nothing to contribute to this nattering coffee break salon. Clearly I have underestimated the cultural significance of a well-done roast.
Now, I think of television commercials for rugged vehicles equipped to transport you and your family to the summer cookout. Every SUV ad tells this story: the montage of utopian road-trip scenes and idyllic suburban final destinations always includes a flash of summer twilight, with family and neighbours gathered around the grill. And now I know how to cook the dish that’s about to be dined upon, a few moments after a giddy child is swung high into the air.
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