The Prime Rib

"I'll drink to that," as I lift my extremely dry martini to click against its twin, held by my spouse of thirty-nine years.

"Will pater be having one steak this evening," asks mater adoringly, "or would you prefer a New York Strip and the Prime Rib?"

I hesitate, to fully sip the Absolut, then to inhale the fragrance of the red and white roses on the table, before I reply. "Both, ...to share, darling," I chortle, beginning to salivate and therefore lisp, "And ixnay the oggieday agbay."

The leopard-print wall-to-wall carpeting causes a slight static electric jolt when our fingertips touch. We are once again a supper club couple in the late 'fifties, being pampered by tuxedoed waiters.

The 17oz. N.Y. Strip arrives first, along with three oval plates replete with well-oiled button mushrooms, buttered asparagus and steamed spinach, respectively. The beef looks darkly sullen, almost grizzly and evil with the complexion of a blacksmith. Then the steak knife scores a pink smile from its girth, whereupon hues of chartreuse and coral pinks prevail upon its personality. Cordial juices ooze downward gravitating upon the plate to puddle.

Ooohs and aaahs are instantly interrupted by the trembling of restive utensils when another waiter approaches the table with the massive roasted prime chop. He holds the plate upon which it rests in two hands. The mere shadow of the rectitudinous marbled marvel erases all the whiteness from the server's starched shirt. The chunk of meat is monstrous, mountainous, megahypertrophic. This rib is ribald.

No meal could be more classy, relaxing and enjoyably elegant.