Chapter 24
Knife stepped into the low-light atmosphere of the restaurant and looked around. Lots of dark wood and black lacquer. Red lighting on a few walls.
She looked at Knife. “I’d recommend the Makku. It’s an unfiltered rice beer, earthy but a little sweet. It should go well with the beef.”
Beyond unfiltered, earthy, and sweet, he had no idea what most of that meant, but he grinned and said, “What the hell. When in Rome, right?”
And if he didn’t like it, he could ask for their beer list and pick his own, but he’d give her this. For now.
She nodded to the server, who asked a few questions Tuesday answered quickly, and then it was just the two of them again.
“I take it you’ve been here before?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, but I brought you for the bone-in dry-aged premium feast. They know their meat here.”
She glanced at the grill. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
He watched her from across the table — the blouse and the four-inch heels, plus the pearl necklace he hadn’t noticed until they were in the parking lot, and he had no idea why the pearls were making his dick hard when her creamy cleavage was framed fucking perfectly by the shirt.
“Thank you for planning this,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing what’s next, but this place is great. If I’d known about it, I’d have probably checked it out. I was hesitant about the Brazilian steak place until I tried it, so we’ll see how the Korean stuff is.”
The waitress brought his beer, and he took a sip — and wasn’t sure, at first. It was nothing like any beer he’d ever had.
He’d expected cloudy since she’d called it unfiltered, but he wasn’t a fan of pale, usually.
It was softer than he expected, with a sweetness that seemed wrong, but it wasn’t overpowering, and he could clearly pick up on the grains.
He took a second sip and changed his mind. He could totally see it working with the spices and the beef.
“Good call,” he told her.
The banchan arrived next, a line of eight small dishes he leaned forward to examine with genuine interest — fermented, pickled dishes for the most part, and he tasted three before the server returned with the first cuts, and he carefully looked them over before putting two on the grill without fanfare.
“What were you checking for? Marbling?” Tuesday asked.
“Age. Sixty days.” He watched how the steaks reacted to the heat. “You can smell the difference from forty-five.”
“Can you taste it?”
“Yeah.” He looked up. “You will too, in a few minutes.”
A server brought Tuesday a green bottle and a shot glass, and she filled the small glass.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Soju.” She held the bottle up so he could see the yellow label.
“Jinro 24, about the same proof as a light wine, but cleaner. Dry, little bit of grain, hint of white pepper.” She set the bottle down, lifted the shot glass, and then threw it back and drank it down — and set the glass back on the table with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it many times before.
“It’s what belongs with Korean BBQ,” she said while pouring another shot.
She offered it to him, and he sipped rather than throwing it back.
She’d been right about the clean. This wasn’t bourbon by any stretch, but it wasn’t terrible.
He tasted the white pepper, but wasn’t sure he would’ve if she hadn’t pointed it out.
He’d had sake before, and this was like a lighter, leaner, slightly peppery cousin.
He tossed the rest of the shot and slid the glass back to her.
“Thanks, but I think I like the beer better. I’m pretty sure you were right about it working well with the steaks.”
Between cooking and eating the beef, he tasted his way through the banchan dishes. Some of which had main ingredients he couldn’t entirely identify. It was a novel experience, but Tuesday answered all his questions.
He’d had kimchi before, fermented and hot as fuck, but not bad for vegetables.
He wasn’t a fan of the pickled radish, however.
The spinach and sesame concoction was a pleasant surprise, and he much appreciated the cool, garlicky cucumber slices in sesame oil as a way to cool off after the spice in fucking everything else.
“The banchan changes seasonally,” she said, when he told her he’d always ask for the vinegary potato dish he loved. “Whatever’s fresh.”
He nodded. That was a philosophy he understood completely, but… “Potatoes are fresh year-round. Technically.”
She only smiled and shook her head, then looked at the steaks, sizzling between them.
He’d taken charge of the grill, going so far as threatening to rap her knuckles with his fork when she reached for the tongs. That’s the way it goes when you bring a man who breaks down carcasses for a living to a steak place with a grill built into the table.
Sixty days of aging creates a flavor and texture nothing else can replicate. It concentrates the tissues down to the steak’s essential character, and gets rid of the moisture that dilutes it.
And it was time for them to come off the heat.
From the very first bite, his opinion of this place was top-notch. They bought excellent beef that didn’t need improving upon. It just needed salt, time, and then fire. The taste told him the animal had been raised on a healthy pasture, something his club knew a great deal about.
When they made it to the galbi, the first bite was so good, he had to close his eyes and completely take it in.
This was a different animal entirely — literally and technically.
Where the ribeye was about restraint and letting the beef speak, the marinated short rib was about transformation.
The marinade had achieved the perfect alchemy, breaking down the connective tissue, driving the sweetness of the soy and the pear deep into the fibers, and when it hit the grill, the sugars caramelized in seconds.
It smelled obscenely good, it tasted better.
Also, he’d butchered enough short ribs to appreciate the Korean cut — thin, across the bone, more surface area for the marinade, more edges to caramelize.
The bone-in NY strip went on last, and he treated it the same way he’d treated the ribeye — minimal interference, maximum attention, off the heat at exactly the right moment.
This was the most straightforward offering of the evening. The bone added flavor, and the dry-aging had given it the same concentrated character as the ribeye, but with a slightly leaner profile.
And conversation with Tuesday over their meal was a fucking treat.
She understood food in a way most people do not, while he understood meat as few people do.
Between the two of them, they both learned new things.
Though admittedly, he was out of his element with the Korean factor, so he learned more from her, but that was perfectly okay.
The drive home likely wouldn’t be even close to okay, and he was already reconciling himself to it. However, what came after would be entirely his call, once he had her in his ropes.
He looked forward to watching her scream and writhe later, but he also enjoyed eating interesting foods with her. Because the truth was, he’d fallen in love with every aspect of this fascinating, intriguing woman.
He even approved of the way she drove. He just didn’t like riding in the passenger seat.
- - - ? - - -
Tuesday grabbed her small daypack from the trunk before they left the parking lot to walk through Renaissance Park, hoping he’d ask what was in it so she could tell him he’d find out later.
But he only looked at it without commenting.
He fell into step beside her, hands easy at his sides, completely unbothered by a mystery bag. He was trusting her with their day, and that was refreshing.
The park was only a few hundred yards away, and the two slowed their pace to enjoy the little piece of nature inside the city. This portion of the park managed to feel genuinely wild in patches, with winding trails through dense trees.
Eventually, they had a nice view of the Tennessee River running wide and calm, catching the afternoon light.
A tugboat pushed a barge downstream, and a kid in a stroller pointed and shouted, “Boat! Boat!”
There were lots of moms and toddlers taking advantage of the gorgeous sunny day in March. A twenty-something mom had stretched a blanket out on the grass and was sitting on it with her toddler, blowing bubbles.
A group of kids played with a frisbee, and at first Tuesday assumed they were skipping school, but then a mom with a nursing baby and a toddler shouted at them to throw it to Thomas, and Tuesday decided they were a large homeschooling family, and this was an outing.
She heard the Southern Belle’s calliope downriver, but it was too far away to see. A sound from a different era.
“Do you hear that?” Knife asked.
He was looking downriver, so she told him what it was and then asked, “Have you ever ridden the Southern Belle?”
He shook his head, and she made a note to look up moonlight cruises. They probably only had them on the weekends, but maybe she could work something out.
Coolidge Park had even more moms on blankets with preschool-aged kids. One little tike was clearly learning to roller skate, another was kicking a soccer ball.
And that was when it happened. An older kid, maybe five or six, on a skateboard. She saw the frisbee heading to the kid, saw the young girl jerk to try to avoid being hit in the head, and then she went down — arm first. Tuesday heard the bone breaking seconds after she saw it.
Knife ran to the girl and dropped to his butt, sitting beside her, looking her over. “Focus on me. I know I’m a stranger, but I won’t touch you, I’m just going to try to help you until your mom gets here. Look at me.”
He said it like an order, and then “Good girl, now breathe in for me…”