Nebraska Beef Passport

A young Nebraskan's epic quest for the perfect piece of meat

Chapter 1: More than a snack, but not quite a meal

On May 17, a Monday morning, final examinations and 19th birthday over, Jordan Petersen set out, with a backpack full of clothes, and a brand new and unstamped Nebraska Beef Passport, to find adventure, Real Nebraska, and meat.

Until now, the student's life had been uneventful, calm, boring even. The child of vegetarian parents, raised on beans, dairy, and (recently) something called Beyond Meat, Jordan had never tasted animal flesh. No chicken, pork, fish or lamb had passed the 19 year old's lips. Beyond Meat was a pale imitation of the beef of the teenager's dreams -- beef, succulent, dripping with juices, filling the mouth with its moist, thick texture. No, it made no sense to go 'beyond' meat, before one had fully experienced meat. 

And, by a stroke of luck, Nebraska's governor had just announced the Nebraska Beef Passport program. One could order a blank passport online. Jordan was careful to keep the passport out of parental sight; the two were critical of the governor's little idea, which they said was encouraging Nebraskans to clog their arteries and shorten their lives, to say nothing of the cruelty to dumb beasts. So the passport arrived and was carefully secreted, until it was time to grasp it in hand and set out on the bold adventure.

Looking at the rich plethora of restaurants where a Nebraskan could consume beef, Jordan had decided it would be easiest to start at the west end of the state, from which liberals had been eradicated and the beef was likely at its choicest. That was Gering. So Jordan stood at the entrance ramp to Interstate 80, with a sign indicating that destination.

A car pulled up, and a rather old man rolled down the window. 

I'm going to Scottsbluff, right near Gering. Can I offer you a ride?

A stroke of luck, thought Jordan. 

Yes, please, kind Sir. 

The driver introduced himself. He said he was in the state legislature, but had to visit his district, to, as he put it, pacify the rubes, who were suspicious of anyone who spent more than a day in Lincoln. He inquired as to Jordan's reason to visit Gering, which he said was little more than a feedlot, stinking of cow-manure. 

Mind, if you quote me, I never said that.

I'm on a quest for beef. I plan to criss-cross the state, eating meat and getting my passport stamped. 

The senator looked interested. 

I have a nice chunk of beef right here. Would you like to taste it?

Jordan hesitated. It would be cruel to disppoint the senator, but this was not how the quest should begin.

Thank you for your kind offer, Senator, but I don't think you can stamp my passport. Plus, your meat might well be too well aged, or too soft, or stale, or otherwise inedible. I intend to begin my quest with only the best young fresh beef, in an establishment certified by our governor, a man who I'm sure shares my craving for fleshy edibles.

The senator seemed a little upset, and remained silent the rest of the long, five hour drive. Jordan gazed out at the flat, dusty landscape along the Platte Valley; but once they had left the interstate, got a better view of the small Nebraska towns dotting the highway, and occasionally the two travelers passed a particularly meaty specimen, which Jordan eyed, hungrily.

When he reached his destination, the senator testily announced he was running late, and would not be able to take his passenger the remaining few miles to Gering. 

Just follow your nose, he advised, petulantly, and drove off.

No matter! Thumb raised, sign displayed, another ride soon appeared.

Where are you going? 

The Metal Griddle, in Gering.

Why, I'm a short-order cook there. We'll be opening for dinner in about half an hour.

What a stroke of luck! A much younger, handsome, well-built man, and a cook to boot!

They pulled up to the rather unprepossessing, corrugated metal building, which prominently displayed a sign.

The Metal Griddle

steakhouse and bar

So why don't you let me buy you a drink, and you can tell me why you're in Gering?

Ensconced at the bar, Jordan told Mike about the dual quest, to explore rural Nebraska and to find the perfect piece of meat. .Jordan was, of course, not yet 21, and should not have been drinking alcohol, but that didn't seem to bother Mike, who was becoming ever more friendly. 

Why Jordan, you came to exactly the right place. Why don't you finish up your drink, and I'll take you around the back, so you can get a good look at what I have on offer?

Perfect, the exploratory teenager thought.

Back in the kitchen, Mike whipped out a chunk of raw pink beef.

Jordan inspected it carefully. It was certainly firm, and had been carefully trimmed at one end. 

Can I touch it?

For sure. 

Jordan poked it with an index fingernail. Cerainly no evidence of flaccidity there. 

It's quite beautiful. Deeply veined, and not at all dried out. My only reservation is the size. It seems more like a breakfast cut than a full meal.

My, you must be hungry, my young friend. Other people have told me it's the biggest in town!

OK, I'll take it.

Baked potato and corn on the cob on the side? 

Yes, thank you, but I'm really here for the meat. 

It was disppointing, though, that the corn cob was both longer and thicker than the piece of beef. 

I'm an inexperience meat eater. In fact, this is my first time, and I know very little of meat. Does it come with a special sauce, as a Big Mac does?

The sauce is served right at the end. It's not to everyone's taste. I won't be upset if you try it and don't like it. Just spit it out. 

Jordan went to work. The meat was tasty enough, not at all chewy. As the newbie carnivore was clearly enjoying the meal, Mike became more and more enthusiastic. Indeed, quite loudly so. 

Here comes the sauce!

Unfortunately, he was right. The sauce was not good. It tasted fishy. Ptah. Despite his assurances that he didn't mind, Mike looked disappointed. 

Jordan finished the meal, and stood up. 

Thank you, Mike, that was an excellent, if rather undersized, introduction to the world of eating meat. How much do I owe you?

Oh, it's on the house, he said, still a little upset. You really think the slab of beef wasn't large enough?

Don't worry about it. When you said you were a short-order cook, I expected as much.

He turned, and stamped Jordan's Nebraska Beef Passport, looking a little sad. Oh well. Clearly there would be many broken hearts in the game of competitive meat-eating.