
Maybe it was the humidity today, but I was going a bit spare at work and my mind was a-wanderin’. Actually, it may have been the misery of attempting to divine meaningful outcomes from impenetrably vague decision texts of UN negotiations that were written and agreed by trade policy wonks having a go at an issue they know nothing about.
Anywho, my train of thought somehow leapt to that culinary marvel: beef tartare.
Ever since, I’ve been dreaming of finely-chopped wagyu formed into a mound with a dimple in the top, of slivered pistachios flash-fried in a little sumac butter, of a quail egg carefully cracked over the mound so the yolk looks comfortably nestled in the dimple and the white gives the rest of the dish a pleasantly rich sheen. You know, something simple, something clean, but also something rich and satisfying.
My craving for beef tartare was such that I spent most of my early afternoon wandering the streets of Wellington searching physically and virtually for anywhere that offered it as a lunch menu option. To no avail, sadly. I know Ambeli does what looks on the dinner menu like a fussy beef tartare, but Chris and I won’t get a chance to go there until early January at the earliest.
Is it so wrong to want nice things?