Dear (seemingly entire) Argentinian cow I just ate,
I had heard so much about you before we met. Friends had told me you were delicious, unwieldily, unworldly. I thought their claims were overblown. I was wrong.
You were truly wonderful. From the first bite to the last you assaulted my taste buds with unrelenting vigor. I must admit: I was intimated by your size. But, committing to the challenge and spectacle, I found it agreeable.
I feel as if your immensity is what drives most conversation about you. This is an incredible disservice to everything you have to offer. Your crisp outer shell laced with salt gives way to delectable soft insides. You wear the meaty pinks well, with pride. The ridges of thick fat paint the rest of your mass with irresistible juice.
It is sad to think that you and a vegetarian may never meet. I greatly respect their stalwart protest against what is likely a grave offense in this world. Still, I wish for another world where the two of you might be acquaintances.
Your friends, the rich wine and bright salad, were great company as well. You three make quite a party and I completely understand the affection you have for one another.
I won’t forget this first night we met, among the shiny silverware in a restaurant in Mendoza. As I walk through the quiet streets in a deepening evening, I will digest this evening’s activities with great fondness.
I hope we visit one another soon.
(I wrote this on June 24 in my journal.)