An old roommate once told me that I come from a very old soul. He said that I had started out as a T-Rex. I liked the idea, as this explained why I am so carnivorous. I love meat!

I was thrilled when hubby took us to Alexander’s Steakhouse recently to celebrate a special occasion. They are one of the few steakhouses that serve real Japanese Kobe steak. People who have been there have highly recommended the place to me.

Upon entering Alexander’s Steakhouse, an impressive presentation of large chunks of meat and various cuts of raw steaks come into view through a very large window. The restaurant itself is rather massive, with many different rooms. It has a formal atmosphere created by an aura of dark wood, dim lighting, and quiet patrons, mixed in with a small army of expressionless fast moving waiters in their penguin suits.

We got lucky; we got a waiter with a charming English accent. I am easily charmed by English accents, as long as the accent is not accompanied by a snobbish attitude. Our waiter did not have an attitude, and was quite knowledgeable of their extensive menu. Best of all, he is not pushy. He lets us order what we wanted to eat.

The food did not disappoint. The Kobe fillet was out of this world. No wonder these Japanese cows are so prized. They ARE special!

Toward the end of my meal, our waiter stopped by to give me a resume grade piece of paper. It was a certificate that showed my steak was real Japanese Kobe. This was a Rainforest Cafe moment for me in this very serious eating experience. I tried really hard to keep a straight face as I examined my certificate, but unable to contain myself, I burst into laughter, and said to our waiter, “Now I can prove to my friends that I really did have Kobe, perhaps I should frame it.” Our waiter didn’t budge, kept his straight face and proceeded to point out the great lineage my steak had come from. Indeed, this certificate showed my cow and his family tree all the way to his great grandfathers. My steak had a name, a royal like name: Kotofuku V.

As we were leaving the restaurant with the certificate in my hand, I was worn down by a bit of guilty conscience. I had eaten many steaks before, but this is the first time I knew the victim’s name. I no longer recalled my juicy steak as a 8oz piece of meat, I had the whole cow in my head.

At home, I was still studying my certificate by the kitchen island. “I wish they didn’t give my steak a name,” I said half to myself and to anyone else who might be listening. “The nose print, the ID number, and where it was raised would be good enough.” I added to myself. “Why do they have to give the poor fellow such a fancy name?”

Finally, my husband came over and leaned over my paper, “Well, did you enjoy Kotofuku the V?”

“Yes, I did.” I said without hesitation.

“Maybe next time you go there, you can tell them that you really enjoyed Kotofuku the V, and you would like to try a piece of Kotofuku the IV.” Hubby suggested.

“….oh….so when are you planning to take me back there?” I asked.

Hubby turned and left…I didn’t get an answer.

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