The finest dish I know is chateaubriand. I’m not sure what it is, really, except that it sounds like something out of the French cuisine, and that it’s meat.
And that in 1975 Bulgaria if you went to the restaurant of the finest hotel of Varna, you were only allowed to order it for two people. If just one person in the party wanted a nice chateaubriand, too bad, because that was against the rules. It was a dish so fine, so exquisite, that it wouldn’t be wasted on just one poor soul.
Fortunately for me, my mother and father were two people who loved chateaubriand, so not only were they allowed to order it, we even made the trip at least twice during that week we spent in Varna.
But the decision to get the finest dish wasn’t easy, I’m sure. After all, it was also the last item on the menu, so it was the most expensive one. I’m positive they went back and forth about it.
“Should we get it? It is pretty expensive…”
“I know, I know…”
“… But we’re on a vacation, for once…”
“I know!”
“Let’s do it! Let’s get the chateaubriand!”
“You sure about that? Aww, what the hell, let’s do it!”
(Except for the “what the hell” part).
I was just an innocent bystander, but also not that innocent. As soon as that gigantic silver plate – of course – hit the table, I was on them French fries like ugly on an ape. I’m sure the steak – if it chateaubriand is a steak – was fantastic, but for me, it was the French fries that made the trip worthwhile.
Without the fries, I could have easily done without the long and boring wait at the table or the scary cab ride to the hotel afterwards. I could have just hung out with Ivo, my new Bulgarian buddy, with whom I played football. Or something.
Of course, Ivo had never had the chateaubriand. Ivo was about my age, maybe a year or two older, but a happy-go-lucky kind of fellow, though I can’t be sure about it. We had no common language, and even the few signs that we thought we shared were a little off as I was told that the people in Bulgaria shaked their heads for yes, and nodded for no.
Like the chateaubriand, I took that as a given fact of life and have gone on for thirty years without checking, but gladly passing it on.
Thinking back right now, maybe Ivo didn’t even originally want to play ball with me. But he did smile.
Naturally, I know nothing about the boy, except for the name. Maybe he grew up to be a dentist, maybe he’s a cab driver making that scary trip from one hotel to another late at night, every night, with some tourists, or maybe he’s a soccer coach. Who knows.
All I know is his name, and that in the photo we have in one of the family albums, he looks nice, but a little shy.
But the name, Ivo, has stayed with us, and grown almost into a family legend. “Ivo, Risto’s Bulgarian buddy” is a member of the extended family, just like Heather, the Canadian girl who toured the world with Up With People, and stayed in our town, and in our apartment, for a night, or the Japanese hitchhiker my parents picked up back in 1987, and who ended up eating about 200 meatballs while lying under our living room coffeetable, reading.
It’s the people we meet, not the meat, that makes all the difference.
I know that Japanese dude.
His name is Tatsuya and he lives in Tokyo now, after 17 years in New York.
I call him – affectionately, of course – The Incredible Consumer, and his eating ability is undiminished.
You can order Chateaubriand from OmahaSteaks.com for a mere $135.00 (US currency). And then there is the shipping to Sweden, etc. Enjoy:)