Ah yes, The good ole U.S. of A. Something that this true blue, corn eating, flag waving, gun slinging country has taught me is how to enjoy a good steak. A delicious, juicy, tender, mouthwatering piece of grass-fed free range red meat. Una carne tan deliciosa que you can almost smell the FREEDOM when you put it on the grill. Una carne tan jugosa que casi casi te la puedes tomar (digo casi porque una vez me entró la locura de hacer un licuado con carne AKA “Protein Shake” y casi me muero, así que no lo recomiendo). Of course que como Mexicano y Americano, whenever I am going to enjoy a meal I need a type of meat to go along with it (I apologize to all the MILLIONS  of vegetarian / vegan readers that avidly read my blog, but when it is time to eat, something has to die).

Pero algo que no puedo superar, algo que me enfurece, me hace retorcer, me da ganas de aventarme in front of a moving train is when my parents go to a fancy restaurant and order a steak WELL DONE. WHY?! Porque?! Eso es un insulto a todas las vacas que mueren cada día para complacer nuestro paladar. Mueren en vano if you go to a 5-star steakhouse and order a Porterhouse WELL DONE. This is something que de plano no entiendo when my fellow Hispanos (especially the older ones, aka, Mom and Dad) argue que la carne esta cruda if you order it rare, medium rare, or even Medium. Pues desde ahorita les digo a toda la raza que están mal. Muy mal, and honestly I’m 83% sure this is why Trump wants a wall.

Y Nunca falla, Here I am at a fancy steakhouse. I want to treat my parents to something nice because you know, they work hard, me aguantan mis tarugadas. Y gracias a ellos, soy el hombre, guapo, chulo, mero machin and grand part of what makes me ME is thanks to THEM, y pues para darle las gracias, I like to treat them to something nice every now and then when I can. Pero todo se riega cuando llega el mesero to take the order.


The following below is NOT A DRAMATIZATION




Waiter: “Hey folks ready for me to take your order?”

Me: “Sure I’ll have the..”

Mom: (Interrupts me and talks to waiter) “Mijo yo creo que quiero él “Esteak” ribeye.”

Waiter: “I’m sorry?”

Me: “Ma no habla Espanol.”

Mom: “Ay entonces dile tú, dile qué…”

Me: (Interrupts mom) “Mom you can speak English.”

Mom: (whiny child mode) “Ay pero quiero que tú le digas”

Me: (to Waiter) “We’ll both have the ribeye please”

Waiter: “Sure what temperature?”

Me: “Medium Rare please”

Mom: (gasps) “Ay mijo no! Dile que WELL DONE.”


Okay, cool. WELL DONE it is. The waiter leaves after the order is taken, and I sit there thinking where did I fail as a son where I cannot convince my own mother que esta carne se disfruta mejor no tan quemada como ella la ordena. How can I alone convince my family that a ribeye steak is a different cut of meat and unlike the leftover skirt steak cut we use para la carne asada it can be ordered at a different temperature?

It’s impossible I tell you. Es cómo si hay algo en el ADN de un hispano que nace en México que hace que el  cerebro se desarrolle de una manera that is scared of the sight of slightly pink beef. Of course when the meal finally gets to us my parent’s 1st complaint is that the meat is too tough and hard to chew! It’s almost as if, now this is just a theory ok but try to follow along, it is almost as if such cut of meat was not really intended to be overcooked by it being ordered WELL DONE.


Now if you are in the mood for something WELL DONE you are in luck because I am about to show a list of scenarios or circumstances where WELL DONEs are acceptable.

It’s simple guys, a steak DONE WELL is not a steak WELL DONE.


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