An Ode to Veal Parmigiana
I do not come off as a passionate person in public, but I harbor some hidden urges. One of which is eating. Not to a gastronomic level but merely sensual, in the manner of a sex tourist. I do not know the latest chefs or which cuisines are currently fusing. Like the man once said, I don’t know shit about shit, but I know what I like. And I like a first-class veal parmigiana.
I had my first grownup veal parm at Ben Benson’s Steak House 10 years ago. It was a revelation, a veal chop pounded into submission, forced to cover a large warm plate to its edges, followed by a waterboarding of sweet marinara and a torturous overcoat of molten cheeses, a piquant blend I couldn’t quite identify. Its inner flesh was more pink than white with a resistance that was totally lacking. It came apart on a fork’s command. The act of eating this victim of a terrible fate was intoxicating. I understand the process of raising veal calves. It is abhorrent. But each bite left me less and less sympathetic. It was the worst kind of lust and the best sex I ever had.
And then Ben’s landlord demanded double when the lease expired and that was that. As quickly as I had finally, truly fallen in love, it was snatched from me — a cruel, Oedipal mind-psych.
Each year over the last decade around this time, I prepare for my birthday weekend in the City. This year, my birthday falls on…
