I came to Australia in September. And in my first full month here -- before moving on to what was first known as The Real World house but quickly transformed into The House That Crap Built -- I stayed in my friends' apartment. And I was there all the time: sleeping on their futon, watching their TV, playing their Xbox, using their Internet and just being there... all the time.
Quite belatedly, I finally gave them the formal thanks they deserved on Saturday night. For on the six month anniversary of my arrival, I took them out to a nice, steak dinner. Or so I thought at the time.
You see, the guys had been telling me about this pub/restaurant in the neighborhood that served a one kilogram steak.* And the concept of eating a one kilogram steak is simply too absurd and ridiculous and irresponsible and moronic to pass up.**
*For those of you who aren't down with the metric system, that would roughly equal 2.2 pounds. Or 35 ounces. For those of who aren't down with the English system, suffice it to say that it's a frickin' huh-yuge cut of meat.
**I didn't take any pictures, but thankfully, I've tracked down someone else's blog post and pictures from the same restaurant, which you can view here.
Let me pause for a moment to channel my inner Comic Book Guy: Worst Idea Ever.
So there we were on Saturday, ordering 5 one kilogram steaks. The waitress thought it was funny after two or three of us ordered the steaks. By the time we had all ordered one, I think we had sent her into shock. And honestly, when you rationally think about it (which we clearly were not doing at the time), that's the only proper response.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, the steaks were served. They were monstrous. (For proper scale, take a look at the cell phone in the above picture!) We ate. And ate. And ate. And, uhhhhh, ate. And amazingly, we all finished our steaks. We left, feeling quite full and proud of what we had just achieved.
And then -- not so shockingly -- my body rebelled. First it was a severely bloated sensation, much as you'd get after any large meal. Then came the pains in my stomach. Then came the nausea. And by 11pm, I had had enough. I headed home and passed out.
Have you ever had the dreaded two-day hangover before? I have, and it's never pleasant. But have you ever had a two-day beef hangover? My God, I would never wish it upon anyone. I woke up Sunday morning with a fever. I went back to sleep. I tried eating, and almost vomited. And I never vomit. I sat around the house all day in a dazed stupor, practically drooling on myself. I went to sleep Sunday night feeling better, but yesterday, it came back with a fury. Nothing went down my stomach without upsetting it. So last night, I went to sleep at 9pm. And this morning, roughly 60 hours after consuming the steak, my stomach is still pissed at me.
All from 1,000 grams of steak. Never again.
Quite belatedly, I finally gave them the formal thanks they deserved on Saturday night. For on the six month anniversary of my arrival, I took them out to a nice, steak dinner. Or so I thought at the time.
You see, the guys had been telling me about this pub/restaurant in the neighborhood that served a one kilogram steak.* And the concept of eating a one kilogram steak is simply too absurd and ridiculous and irresponsible and moronic to pass up.**
*For those of you who aren't down with the metric system, that would roughly equal 2.2 pounds. Or 35 ounces. For those of who aren't down with the English system, suffice it to say that it's a frickin' huh-yuge cut of meat.
**I didn't take any pictures, but thankfully, I've tracked down someone else's blog post and pictures from the same restaurant, which you can view here.
Let me pause for a moment to channel my inner Comic Book Guy: Worst Idea Ever.
So there we were on Saturday, ordering 5 one kilogram steaks. The waitress thought it was funny after two or three of us ordered the steaks. By the time we had all ordered one, I think we had sent her into shock. And honestly, when you rationally think about it (which we clearly were not doing at the time), that's the only proper response.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, the steaks were served. They were monstrous. (For proper scale, take a look at the cell phone in the above picture!) We ate. And ate. And ate. And, uhhhhh, ate. And amazingly, we all finished our steaks. We left, feeling quite full and proud of what we had just achieved.And then -- not so shockingly -- my body rebelled. First it was a severely bloated sensation, much as you'd get after any large meal. Then came the pains in my stomach. Then came the nausea. And by 11pm, I had had enough. I headed home and passed out.
Have you ever had the dreaded two-day hangover before? I have, and it's never pleasant. But have you ever had a two-day beef hangover? My God, I would never wish it upon anyone. I woke up Sunday morning with a fever. I went back to sleep. I tried eating, and almost vomited. And I never vomit. I sat around the house all day in a dazed stupor, practically drooling on myself. I went to sleep Sunday night feeling better, but yesterday, it came back with a fury. Nothing went down my stomach without upsetting it. So last night, I went to sleep at 9pm. And this morning, roughly 60 hours after consuming the steak, my stomach is still pissed at me.
All from 1,000 grams of steak. Never again.
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