Chapter 13

With every soloed body shirted, the rabbit food on the table, the coals glowing red and the steaks at hand ... for those who wanted steaks ... everybody did ... I started taking orders.

"Burned to a crisp?" I asked. Since I'm a guy, I was expecting at least two not guys to raise a hand for destroyed beef.

I got one response ... the biggest, burliest, baddest looking biker-type dude I ever saw said, "Crispy, please. And make it a small one."

I picked up a half-pounder with the tongs ... never perforate ... and got a, "Too big." I fumbled around on the platter and snatched up the small flank steak I had planned on cooking for the little girl ... the five foot two inch date of the biker type ... and got a thumbs up. He loaded up a platter ... not a plate ... with veggies and baked ... salted it and began to plow his way through it ... twice.

I gave his three minutes and asked, "Well?"

No response. Thirty seconds and a flip of the flank.

"Medium Well?" Two responses and my choices met with approval. The smell of burning meat mixed with the smell of singe.

"Pink in the middle?" The vast majority responded. Those cuts went on the grill as the flank began to smoke. I picked up the medium well, turned them and looked at the biker-type; he shook his head. We were getting close to shoe leather but the guy looked happy.

"Bloody?" Two responses ... Hineahuone and the five foot two inch date of the biker type ... both of whom took a baked potato and split it in the middle, sliced half of a stick of salted butter and put the butter in the middle of the baked and were standing there licking the melting butter as it spilled out on the plate.

I put the last two cuts on the grill ... served up the pink and the medium well and looked at the big guy.

While he was walking over to the grill, I turned the bloody and the last two and handed the guy the tongs. I was not going to put that travesty of a steak on his plate.

Grace grabbed her hair and stuck her nose on one of the last slabs and said, "This one is mine." She twitched it off the grill with her fingers while the big guy turned his charcoal one last time ... no drips.

"Perfect," he said.

"Perfect," said his girlfriend as the blood mixed with the butter and the potato.

"Perfect," said Hineahuone ... hers was about fifteen seconds longer on the grill.

Mine was at least a minute longer than Grace's ... just right.

"Grace? grace." I said.

"May your landings and takeoffs number the same ... and if they don't ... don't take anybody with you," she said.