Short Loin Legends

Let's just say that, with the help of a bottle of Pinot Noir, I came, I saw, I quaffed, I snarfed. On the whole, the steak was quite tasty, crisp and blackened on the exterior, with the strip side pink, fatty and flavorful, and the filet side tender and satisfying. Within half an hour, nothing was left of that porterhouse but the bone and the whiff of charcoal on my breath. Julie finished far behind, and even then only with the assistance (I suspect) of one witness next to her. Victory was as sweet as the free strawberry shortcake before me, and I confess that the following day, food did not pass my lips again until supper.

The last few bites were the toughest, and yet I'm already plotting an encore. You see, each time you down a porterhouse, you get a space on a plaque that holds more than a dozen names. I have dreams of an entire plaque on the restaurant's wall repeating the title chosen for me: Stephen "Hoover" Lemons. You've got to admit, it has a ring to it. And who needs a statue or some old parade, anyway, when honored in such a grand fashion?