It's been my curse to have been afflicted throughout my life with men who like their steak well done. There was my father. And then there were several boyfriends. Including one in Italy, where NOBODY eats steak well done.To his credit, it did embarrass him. We'd order bistecca alla Fiorentina, and when it arrived--rare, they don't even ask--he'd whisper to the waiter that he'd appreciate it if he'd take his portion back to the kitchen to cook it to shoe leather...
A good bistecca alla Fiorentina is at least two inches thick. When my parents came to visit me in Italy, I took them to Florence, because you really have to go there. A friend of mine who literally lived to eat took us out to lunch up in the hills outside the city. Neither of my parents was a big eater, and my father, as noted, liked his steak well done. But they were surprisingly good sports. Piero ordered enough antipasti for it to be a meal, and then pasta, of course, and then the steak. He knew the people at the restaurant, and went to the kitchen to help cut the steak. A pair of gigantic porterhouses, these about three inches thick. Cooked on a grill, and so really rare.
My father ate it. My mother ate it enthusiastically. And they ate everything else, too. We skipped dinner.
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