Dead Meat

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For connoisseurs of steak, nothing beats a partially rotted slab that’s been lying around for a month.

By Guy Saddy
Photos by André Doyon

Considering the setting, it was hardly an auspicious occasion. I was in downtown Los Angeles, dining in a converted railway car open 24 hours a day. Expectations: way low. Since the Pacific Dining Car was ostensibly a steak house, I ordered a rib steak. It arrived in classic steak house fashion, on a plate as naked as a newborn. I took a bite. And then, something quite unexpected happened. Clouds parted; a chorus of angels mooed. My steak was amazing: nutty, overwhelmingly beefy. It was an epiphany, the Holy Grail of saturated fat. It was the most exquisite piece of beef I’d ever encountered.

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