The Power Steak
On Political Performance, Red Meat, and Gender Trouble
Years ago, a friend and I decided to have a “man’s night” in New York City. We dressed up in black suits (or suit-like attire, more Judy Garland in Summer Stock than Marlene Dietrich in, well, anything), red lipstick, and heels, and booked ourselves a table at a slightly-retro restaurant. We sat down, ordered two steaks and two glasses of red wine, and clinked glasses as a Frank Sinatra cover played in the background. As two cisgender women extensively schooled on the gender constructs that informed our choices, we knew that what we were doing was make believe, a chance to perform a version of ourselves that defined easy categorization by our consumer choices. But we also wanted to believe, at least on that evening, that what we consumed would change how we saw ourselves, that the steak represented a kind of transubstantiation of masculinized power. Our uniforms were armor, our steak our fortification.
This weekend I repeated part of this performance while on a trip to Washington D.C.—before heading out to a show, I put on a little black dress and settled down for a nice steak. Such performative consumption practices seem right at home in the Capitol City, a place in which everything, even what you ordered for dinner, can feel like a political statement. Food has always been a subject of intense political meaning, and in DC, that meaning shifts with the restaurants that come and go with each administration. The Obama years seemed to many a moment of cultural (and culinary) renaissance, a chance to honor a broader array of restaurants (and chefs) as capable of delivering genuine, edible artistry. The Trump years, meanwhile, represented a total contraction from not just elevated cuisine (45 notoriously preferred fast-food and/or restaurants he owned himself), but also from any meaningful engagement with the people who made his meals possible. The Bidens’ dining habits seem to signal a return to at least some of the Obama-era’s culinary experimentation, though it’s notable that their favorite spots fall squarely in the category of uncontroversial eats, endorsing French and Italian food, and of course, burgers and ice cream for everyday treats. But the throughline for all three administrations—and indeed, countless administrations before them—has been the omnipresence of beef. Whether on a bun or well-done, meat consumption remains central to the exercise of political power; indeed, it seems downright impossible to imagine a vegetarian president, let alone a vegan one. (Bill Clinton didn’t adopt a vegan diet until well after he left office—and only once he found himself in genuine cardiovascular crisis.)
As Carol J. Adams asserted in her book, The Sexual Politics of Meat (1990), “People with power have always eaten meat,” and from there the mythology of meat was born, permanently creating an association between meat, masculinity, and the political and social act of domination. American women are not ignorant of this association, especially as it trickles down into the sexualization of meat in mainstream advertising, in which scantily-clad women scarf down burgers or, even more disturbingly, become the meat themselves. Emily Contois’ terrific book Diners, Dudes, & Diets links these tendencies and marketing strategies to inherently patriarchal, white supremacist expressions of entitlement—the meat fuels not just the masculine body, but also its right to take up space—socially, culturally, culinarily.
Perhaps it’s inevitable that I would then see my ordering of a simple steak as a not-so-simple act of political performance, my own attempt to take up space in a part of the culinary landscape that has never really wanted me at the table. But such a table is inherently ill-fitted to serve the needs of contemporary diners, and retains its appeal primarily as a kind of throwback, laden with dishes that seem inherently retrograde and out of touch. And so, as I slice up my (medium-rare) steak, it begs the question: is it environmentally and politically irresponsible to order something that contributes so extensively to the degradation of our planet, to use my dining dollars to uphold an industry with so much corruption and malfeasance? Or is my obligation as a feminist to refuse to be content with the smaller, sadder, salad plate? Or—as one might very fairly ask—is a steak ever just a steak? What exactly would it mean, in some future universe of gender-neutral food, to “have it your way”?
Recommendation: Perhaps I have patriarchy and power on the front of mind today because I finally got a chance to see Sarah Polley’s extraordinary film Women Talking. In a year of truly exceptional films, it’s hard to give sufficient attention to a story that is so specifically small in its narrative scope, but so tremendously resonant and relevant to this moment in our violent, misogynist society. Despite its very dark subject matter, it is also profoundly human and empathetic in its emphasis on narrative agency—not just whose voices are heard, but how the convergence of many voices can produce a coherent story, and what historical records can do to capture that coherence. If you can ready yourself for the viewing experience, it is well-worth your time.
The Perfect Bite: While in DC this weekend, I had a chance to walk through Eastern Market and revisit one of my favorite spots for breakfast, The Market Lunch. It’s a tiny spot, with a single long hightop table and stools running the length of the stall, but it’s a place where you know that you’ll receive a generous portion of delicious, unpretentious food. (Even just standing across from it and inhaling the scent of blueberry pancakes is enough to make your mouth water.) My Big Greens Omelet, plus coffee and a single mini donut from DC Donuts straight off the Homer Price-style conveyer belt, was a perfect start to my weekend.
Cooked & Consumed: I basically grew up in a mac-and-cheese-free household; pasta was a staple of course, and we ate plenty of lasagna and baked ziti, but I don’t think I actually tried a bowl of Kraft until high school, and a real baked mac & cheese until college. (Like steak, this dish is fraught with more meaning than actual remembered flavors or pleasures.) So I was happy to deviate slightly from a true M&C and instead go with this cauliflower-based version from Ali Slagle in the NYT, which was quick to prepare and impossibly decadent to eat. (I strongly recommend mixing in some panko or fried onions with the cheese on top, as it gives it a nice crunchy finish.)