Rory Gibson: My mate ate a steak and it was such an achievement
A simple dinner choice became an emotional milestone for a cancer survivor who feared he might never eat his favourite meal again.
I went out to dinner with my friend Ian last weekend.
It would have been an unremarkable event under normal circumstances but this night out was special, because Ian ordered a steak.
It was a huge moment for him. For the past few months he’s been fighting throat cancer, enduring gruelling episodes of radiation and chemotherapy treatment.
To try and swallow anything other than air during this ordeal was agonising.
Now here he was, the trauma of the treatment fading and his appetite showing signs of life. The 300-gram rib eye steak on the menu called to him like a lost child. He desperately wanted it.
Many things pass through a person’s head when they are fighting for their life, and for Ian one of them was contemplating never being able to demolish a slab of juicy beef again.
Having only recently returned to eating some solid but soft food, he was worried that if he ordered the steak his still-raw throat might not be able to handle its texture.
My decision to order the rib eye added an element of envy and masculine competitiveness to his choice dilemma. When I joked that he could have a few nibbles of mine if he felt he should order the soup instead, it tipped him over the edge – two steaks coming up, both medium rare.
Did you know the word steak comes from the Old Norse word “steik” which means “to roast on a stake”? No, me neither.
It’s amazing what a significant place that simple cut of beef has in our psyche today, but it’s only a relatively recent phenomenon. The demand for steak in the burgeoning cities of east-coast America helped fuel that nation’s expansion in the west and the rise of cowboy culture. Much the same thing happened in Australia.
The advent of commercial refrigeration meant beef could be exported to the world, and a global legend was born.
When our steaks arrived, Ian just stared at his in wonderment. It represented a happier time, his BC (before cancer) life, and he wanted to delay any potential disappointment from taking a bite and not being able to eat it.
I had no need for such sentimentality, and ploughed in. It was perfectly cooked, super tender, juicy as all get out and full of flavour.
My moans of pleasure forced Ian to face his moment of truth. He took a bite, chewed tentatively – and swallowed.
His face was like watching the sun come up. It radiated joy, and a happier man you would not have found in that instant.
It’s hard to imagine a cancer-stricken vegetarian having the same emotional attachment to a carrot.
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