The waiter slapped down my pavé au poivre….. The knife slid through the meat; the thinnest layer of crusty brown opening to reveal a pulpy red heart. I watched as the pink juices puddled into the buttery pepper sauce.
Gwendal looked up. I must have uttered an audible gasp of pleasure. “I don't know why you can't get a steak like this in England,” I said, careful, even in my haste to lift the first bite to my mouth, not to drip on my sweater. My fork and knife paused in midair as I let the salt, the fat, the blood settle on my tongue.”
from Lunch in Paris by Elizabeth Bard (2010)