Skirt Steak

Skirt Steak: From Gray Puck of Sadness to Juicy Strip of Yes, Please.

by Kristin L. Wolfe

When I first moved to New York from San Francisco in 1999, I was in an amateur flamenco troupe, fully adorned with castanets, doing Palmas, whipping the ruffled black skirt, and, well...there was the stomping. I’m telling you; I’ve got rhythm. The one, two, one, two, smooth side-to-side of merengue is my favorite, but I must apologize, these hips lie. Look closely, I’m a third-generation part Ukrainian part Italian born in Philadelphia. Zoom in even closer, and I just need a rolling pin and a scowl, and I’d echo the square babushkas in kitchens from a hundred years ago. Don’t get me wrong, I am proud of these roots, and have even gotten a lot of mouth-watering food out of it, but not steak. My Eastern European roots did not give me steak. Even the splash of Italian that zips in and out of the Lerario’s on my mom’s side, did not give me steak.

I’ll never know what my parents were feeding me growing up, but it was not the steak I know and love now; it was, rather, an unrecognizable gray puck of sadness which caused me to not even come close to a steak for nearly twenty years, until I met my ex-husband. But, even still, it was not meeting my ex-husband, but meeting his ex. Yes, meeting him was great. I even got an instant family for nearly twenty years. My son Xavier got a brother, Nico. And so, I got Nico’s mom, Marina. And Marina gave me steak.

We blended families and lived within spitting distance from each other in Jackson Heights, Queens–to this day, a marvelous epicenter of culture and savory treasures. We frequently opened the doors to La Pequena Colombia under the R train, the restaurant Marina’s family owned, which was even featured on the Food Network. But most importantly, it was where I found steak.

The large restaurant on the corner of 83rd and Roosevelt had an even larger menu, but when I went there for the first time, then tons of times after that, I succumbed to the orders of their world: you have the skirt steak with arepa and black beans. I was not prepared for this. It was as if the sunglasses came off, or Glenda the Good Witch made all my dreams come true.

The oblong plate arrived, modest enough, but the aromas of char rang out. The skirt steak was marinated, grilled, and blackened ever so slightly, yet when sliced the juices spilled out before the utensil hit the other side of the plate. It was draped just gently with a glowing green chimichurri, made with mountains of cilantro and offset by red onion and olive oil, and well, other splendid things. Then just barely hugging one side of the skirt was an unassuming side of black beans; they weren't the pebbly dry sort you've had elsewhere, but the smooth sort that still has bite. Then beckoning from the other side was a small puffy cloud; that’s the arepa, the white corn tortilla sometimes flattened with mounds of butter and queso blanco or sometimes it just sits quietly, as an adornment to all that is good and tasty.

Well…

I know. I am supposed to be a lady, a nice girl with manners, and perhaps not even eat steak. But that aroma, that char, those juicy bits….?

Time for Palmas.....

From the first time to the last, you better believe it, I tear that skirt every time.