After doing much reading I finally had a successful “London broil” today. Last night I marinated the slab of almost lean beef with a mixture of soy sauce, grated fresh ginger and garlic, and Worcestershire sauce, and a splash of water to take the edge off.

Taking it to the grill today, I cooked it on eight minutes each side at high heat. Could be that the propane is running a tad low, but the flames were quite uncooperative and I had to finish it by searing it on a flat-bottommed wok. As expected from my research, “rare” would be a kind term to describe the insides of the inch-thick steak. Sliced thinly, it wasn’t as disgusting as first perceived; however, the maternal unit wouldn’t have any of it, especially since the meat was rare enough to actually hold its juices.

I conceded to cutting a good portion off and further sandwiching it in the brutal grips of the George Forman grill, and gave it a good three minute swipe. The result was a medium rare piece that was pink in the middle, not like a slice of medium-done roast beef, but already the chewy grainy consistency was starting to show.

I’ve arrived at the conclusion that only a London broil—top round or flank steak—cooks in absolutes. I’m looking now at my mom’s leftover beef with a shade of disdain. I don’t think I have the guts to finish that portion off, and I’m glad with my almost-raw half of the equation.

Now all I need is a few hours to empty my stomach and get back to chow.