Marrow Focus

That old housewife axiom, "The easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach," was steeped in the tradition of the king returning to his castle, in a 50's Donna Reed sense, of course. In the modern day of world of cutthroat media sales, this phrase can be co-opted and gloriously bastardized to something along the lines of, "the easiest way to a fat man's ad budget is through his epic appetite."

A few years ago, I was working for a lifestyle publication dedicated to an unhealthy lifestyle, a title laser-focused on shortening the existence of its readers. As you may imagine, many of the book's advertisers were equally dedicated to pleasuring themselves to death (so to speak.) Lunches were liquor-soaked. Dinners were bacchanalian feasts of grilled meat with sides of grilled meat. Desserts were commonly enjoyed at any number of New York gentlemen's clubs, and involved surprisingly little sugar. Despite the fact that virtually every one of these advertisers was a reliably despicable individual, one of my most vivid memories involved something akin to a family-style dinner, with an extra dose of family.

Ralph Balboni* was the pursestring holder for a multifaceted, internet-based packaged goods company. I'd known him for about a year, but his position always fascinated me. In that year, I'd spoken with several other of his colleagues who always chose to defer to Ralph on a variety of issues. When the CEO said he'd have to get Ralph's blessing as well, my curiosity mounted. Ralph seemed to be a company oracle, more than anything else -- a shaman without whom nothing could be achieved. Or. he'd just worked his way up high enough in the crime family, to the strata where all decisions had to be run by him. One of the two.

My boss and I went to his suburban New York office to chat about some ad space on a windswept Thursday afternoon. Our plan was to dazzle him with our shiny wares, throw a piece of meat and a glass of wine down his throat, and hit the road, victorious in our conquest.

After we chatted about the benefits and pitfalls of advertising schedules, we shook hands on a deal, and decided where we would go for what had now become dinner. It would be my boss, me, and Ralph…and Ralph's wife, and Ralph's son, and Ralph's daughter-in-law, all heading to one of the finest steakhouses outside the New York city limits. Now, Ralph was obviously no Saturday soldier of the dinner table. This was a man who made sweet, yet indelicate love to every plate of food ever to find its unfortunate way beneath his nose. There's a self-affirming, if not slightly crude phrase which travels the underground network of plus-sized gentlemen everywhere: "it takes a big man to build a shed over his tools." Over the years, Ralph seemed to have constructed something of a substantial split-level ranch with a family room, wet bar, and bonus den over the garage. His generous proportions and easygoing demeanor were clear indications of his appreciation for life's bounty.

Ralph's family met us at the restaurant. A surprisingly attractive and sophisticated woman (his wife); a beady eyed, ex-con wannabe sporting a wrinkled dinner jacket (Ralph's son); and a once-pretty woman whose hobby appeared to be insomnia (the daughter-in-law), were waiting for us at the bar. This enchanting gaggle greeted us with a combination of flaccid handshakes and crooked smiles. Once seated, Ralph started regaling us with tales of meat. To call him the Socrates of Sirloin would be too strong, but he certainly knew more about steaks and fat marbling than anyone without a portable oxygen tank or who works in a kitchen should know. He knew all the different ways to "slice the flank." He knew the layered components of the proper short rib. Needless to say, we ordered steak. The porterhouse for six -- a lunch tray-sized slab of rare beef, seasoned with salt, pepper, and a generous dollop of butter -- arrived at the table. Ralph looked slightly wild-eyed. His wife subtly placed her hand on his wrist -- perhaps a loving gesture, but, more likely some sort of control mechanism.

       

No morsel of meat was too small to escape this surgeon's scalpel.

The actual dining portion of the dinner went off without a hitch. We all made pleasant conversation, and a real family atmosphere imbued the whole proceeding. The steak itself was indeed very good, and Ralph was obviously satisfied. He wore a Cheshire cat grin, albeit one with all the teeth jammed up with flecks of creamed spinach and gristle. It appeared everything was a tremendous success. Then, Ralph gave me the single greatest validation of my skill as a sales professional.

Ralph reached over and grabbed the knife and fork off his wife's plate, upended the abandoned bone, and proceeded, butcher-like, to shear it of its remaining beefy goodness. No morsel of meat was too small to escape this surgeon's scalpel. My boss and I had obviously managed to make Ralph feel at ease and we watched, both gratified and horrified, as Ralph gnawed his steak bone with reckless abandon. If there was any doubt as to Ralph's comfort level, the last shred of it was abandoned as my boss and I bore witness to the end of this digestive display: a small bit of tendon taking brief refuge in Ralph's moustache.

Some may have taken Ralph's final pass at our table's entrée as an act of overbearing gluttony. What it was, though, was a satisfied gastronome who felt comfortable enough to up-end a steak bone and hack at it like he lived in a jungle. As to whether or not Ralph would have been as comfortable working the leftovers with any dinner companions, who's to say? But, I do know this:

Screw the sizzle -- it's the steak that sells.

*Names have been changed to protect the... you be the judge.