They call it a Royale with Cheese.JULES: What do they call a Whopper?VINCENT: I didn’t go into Burger King.Quentin Tarantino, Pulp FictionWhatever other ingredients might make up my banquet, it hardly needed emphasizing that the most important dish, the centerpiece, must involve beef.Veal is the meat of the bourgeoisie, but it’s beef they eat for pleasure. For proof, look no further than a recent French TV commercial. A family of horned, black-faced, but otherwise well-dressed, upper-middle-class demons is grilling steaks on an indoor barbecue. With a burst of heavenly music, servants open the double doors to admit their dinner guests: a band of angels preceded by . . . well, he’s wearing a tennis sweater, not a robe, but the crosier he carries and the saintly smile on his bearded face leave little doubt about his—or should that be His?—identity. While angels and devils canoodle and steaks sizzle, the visitor drools over thick slices of pink and tender beef. Yes, friends, it’s official: Jesus likes it rare.
