2 nights ago it was a perfectly cooked piece of New York Strip. Slightly over medium-rare. Charred on the edges with a rosy pink center. Beefy and juicy. As I chewed, I knew that there was another platter of thinly sliced sirloin waiting for me.
Last night I ate mounds of negitoro. I dipped my chopsticks into the negitoro, delicately swished it in a saucer of wasabi-spiked soy, and stuffed my face. Again and again I did this, secure in knowing that there was more waiting for me if I wanted.
Steak and sushi countdown: 7 months, 7 days to go.
