By Whskyjack, a Trail Mix Contributor
A few weeks ago Donald Trump was observed eating a prime dry aged steak, burnt (well done) with ketchup
It may explain the problem for Democrats in Trump country that they don’t seem to want to use this against Trump.
Apparently they don’t see anything wrong with mistreating a perfect piece of meat by over cooking it and smothering it in ketchup. At least I’ve not heard any outcry.
Public Policy Polling did do a survey and found that Americans across the political divide expressed their distain for this behavior. It may be the only thing they agree on.
As usual very liberal types were the more clueless as they gave the greatest support to ketchup on steak (but not completely clueless as a majority still disapproved)
From James Michener’s novel “Centennial”
Now the ritual began. At twelve-fifteen on the dot we took our places at three oilcloth-covered tables, and tumblers of ditch—bar bourbon and Platte water—were circulated. Wendell raised his glass and cried, “Gentlemen, to the open range!” All drank, and Hermann Spengler proposed, “To the Hereford.”
Waiters now came in with large baskets of French fried potatoes, which they emptied onto the middle of each table, forming golden pyramids, over which they sprinkled handfuls of salt. The doors swung open and the waiters reappeared with huge trays. Before each of us they placed a sizzling platter containing nothing but a monstrous sirloin cut from some super-steer at the Brumbaugh feed lots.
Steak and potatoes, the food of real men. Hands reached into the golden stacks to grab potatoes, and knives cut into tender steak. For the first few minutes there was not much talk, then Wendell recalled the time the club had entertained a senator from Rhode Island. The members had been most attentive to him, for on a matter of vital concern he held the crucial vote, and things looked promising until the sirloins were served.
In a quiet voice he had asked, “Could I have some catsup?”
There was a ghastly silence. To these men, putting catsup on a sirloin was like dumping cigarette ashes in holy water. No one knew what to say, but everyone was adamant that no bottle of catsup would disgrace that table, even if the supplicant was a senator commanding a vital vote.
The impasse had been broken by Wendell’s father, a steely-eyed man: “Senator, as you know, your vote is crucial to us, and there is nothing in the world we would not do for you. I think we’ve given you ample proof of that. But I would rather see horse piss sprinkled over my steak than see this table profaned by a bottle of catsup. No, Senator, you may not have catsup.”
More Posts by Whskyjack
This is a detailed account of Trump’s weekend, right down to minutes before the piece was written. It even had conversations with his golfing partners. It is an amazing piece of reporting, or it would be any other time and about any other administration, but with these goof balls it is just another day sharing stories with the press. The Trump people’s hatred of the press is all window dressing. In fact they love to gossip with reporters. If you are a Washington reporter and you don’t have your pet Trumpista by now you need to get in a different business.
At least in this country the losers get to live to fight another day.