I Could Live The Kobe Life, But I Don't Like Beer
Today's lesson is about Kobe.
I had the pleasure of meeting Kobe Saturday night when Mr. Handsome and I took advantage of the fact that Em and Dee are still at camp and we are spawnless, so we went out for an actual nice dinner at a place called Milestones.
Anyway, Mr. Handsome left it totally up to me to choose a place, which was stressful because I don't do well with choices. Ask me to choose which crayon to use, and I have to take an extra Xanax.
I started out choosing a Japanese restaurant, but Mr. Handsome made one of his faces at me, which told me he wasn't happy about it but would go and pretend to enjoy it for me, so that one went out the window pretty quickly. Then, I thought maybe we could try one of those cool restaurants in the Market area that we rarely get to, but they were all hoity-toity with their menus and their prices, and I got angry pretty quickly with their trying to pretend they are something that they most probably are not, and also Mr. Handsome probably wouldn't be able to go dressed down in his shorts, and I in my jeans that make me look slim, so that's how we ended up at Milestones.
After perusing the menu at Milestones, we decided firstly and most importantly on drinks, because we're nothing if we don't get sloshed. Mr. Handsome finally decided on a special Milestones drink with raspberry and appletini alcohol in it, and I got a raspberry mojito, which was quite delish.
I then decided on what sounded like a very interesting and eclectic, yet down-to-earth meal: garlic mashed potatoes, steamed veggies, and meatloaf. But this wasn't just any kind of meatloaf, my friends. Nay. This was meatloaf made with a Kobe cow.
I knew Kobe beef was "special", but I never really knew what made it special. Until now.
You see -- and I realize here that I may be the only one left on the face of the earth who did not know about Kobe cows -- but apparently these cows are treated to classical music, massages eleventy times a day, and they drink beer and sake every day of their relatively short lives. Yes, my friends, they are drunken cows who live at the spa, in an effort to create the master beef of all time, for we gluttonous and never-satisfied folk.
So, I ordered the Kobe meatloaf, and then discovered what Kobe really means. And when the waitress first described it to me, I thought, 'Lucky cows, being pampered like that their whole lives.' Because, not only do they drink beer all day long and get massages and listen to Bach and Beethoven, they are also not allowed to move. And then I started to get sad.
Tthe more I thought about it, the more I decided that maybe having continuous massages and drinking beer and sake, and not being allowed to move aren't really a cow's idea of heaven. They're a person's ideal, maybe, but a cow's? I'm pretty sure that, given the choice between that and grazing in a field, they'd choose the latter.
I'm not one to ignore the chance to try something new, so I went ahead with the Kobe meatloaf experiment, regardless of my gradual and apparent distaste for the whole idea, and how it's made to seem that the cows actually prefer this lifestyle. Because I'm sure they don't.
And I'm here to tell you, folks, that it wasn't all that wonderful. I'm here to tell you that my meatloaf, made with regular freaking beef from cows who graze to their heart's content, and don't get their asses massaged, is a thousand times better than the $20 meatloaf I had at Milestones. Yes, guys, that's right. Twenty farking dollars. And I decided right then and there I was going to try and sell my meatloaf recipe to anyone who was interested, for $25 a head, because my meatloaf is mucho better than the Kobe cow one, and so I deserve it. Right?
And what did I get for this experience, you ask? Well, I got a bit tipsy from the mojito, which was all well and good. I also got very full, because I was tres hungry, so I ate all the potato and veggies, and a good portion of the meatloaf, despite my growing discomfort with the whole notion of sedentary and drunken cowness.
I should have known better, guys, because my stomach issues are continuing, which means my whole intestinal system is upside down and inside out, and because of this, and the fact that I was really quite upset about the whole Kobe thing (and I'd also just like to let you know that I do not eat veal for this very reason) I was up half the night with pain not unlike the labour pains I had many years ago that I am still trying to forget, and I'm positive the Kobe cow kept me up and writhing with this pain in the very depths of my gut.
I think that maybe the little Japanese cows were doing the Karma thing with yours truly and letting her know they weren't all too happy about my uncaring attitude toward their sorry little lives of beer guzzling and massages, having eaten the loaf of Kobe meat despite my consternation.
So, that was my first and last taste of Kobe cow. But I know it's not the last of the Kobe cow experience for yours truly, because tomorrow, I go to the masochistic gastroenterologist who did this to me in May, and instead of telling me I have stomach cancer or huge issues with my gut that can be fixed, he's going to say there's nothing wrong with me, and that there's nothing they can do for me, and the little Kobe cows will be standing there, laughing as they get their tender asses massaged.