Tartare

During a college trip to Milan, Italy, we enjoyed a hearty Italian buffet breakfast at our hotel. However, the site visit in the morning was intense and hectic, and by lunchtime, we were all starving. We walked quite a distance before entering a restaurant. Each of us ordered our own meals. Since childhood, I've been the kind of person who never made a fuss about food; I eat everything, and I took pride in this fact—until that day. Feeling overconfident that I could eat anything, I randomly ordered a dish from the menu: Tartare. I found the price reasonable and noticed it was listed under the non-vegetarian main course section, so I decided to go with it. (By the way, I ordered steak tartare.) When my dish arrived, I examined it from every angle and quickly realized that the yolk was raw. I thought about skipping the yolk since it didn't look cooked, so I decided to take a bite of the meat from the side. To my surprise, it was also raw! I had never eaten or heard about 'tartare' before. (For those who don't know, tartare is meat served raw, typically seasoned and shaped into small cakes) I asked my friends about it, and everyone knew what tartare was! They simply smiled and said, "You should have clarified before ordering." Unfortunately, this was not a great experience for anyone except me. I didn't want to make a scene, but I was extremely hungry. After contemplating it for a moment, I tried to take another bite, but I realized I just couldn't eat raw meat. 'What do I do now?' Eventually, I called the waiter and explained that I don’t eat raw meat. He replied, "You should have clarified earlier." I then asked if he could cook it for me. He insisted that it was the dish I ordered and even pointed to the menu in his broken Italian-English. After that, he said that if I didn't want to eat it, I could order something else, but it wouldn't be replaced. With that, he walked away. We were short on time and needed to get back to our site. Finding this restaurant had already taken a lot of time, and I had waited long enough for this dish. There were also people waiting for seats. Ordering another dish would mean I had to wait another 30 minutes at minimum, and my friends would be finished eating by then. I was really, really hungry. I called the waiter again, and this time he asked the chef to speak with me instead. The chef, wearing a long white cap, approached looking tired, irritated, and furious. The restaurant was crowded. I tried to explain that I don’t eat raw meat and that I wasn't aware this dish was raw. He looked at me with a mix of amazement and anger, and I found it difficult to interpret his expression. He pointed at the menu and confirmed that it was the dish I ordered. It was a fine dining restaurant where silence was essential. Even the sound of a knife falling could be heard prominently as everyone ate quietly. After a lengthy, polite argument in broken English, he pointed to the menu and said, 'This... you ordered...' before shrugging his shoulders. I said to him, "I can't eat this raw. Please do something to it—anything but dont serve it raw." “Boil, fry, bake... just anything, just do something to it!” I added. “DO SOMETHING?” he asked, his tone uncertain. His neck bent as he furrowed his brow. “Whatever is quick... I’m hungry!” I gestured as clearly as I could to emphasize my point. “Quick, quick... hungry, hungry!” I began to mimic him. He took the dish and went inside without saying anything. My friends later told me that I was pointing at the steak and repeatedly said just one line: "Do something to it!" He took the steak back, clearly not pleased, and returned with it about ten minutes later. Steam was rising from it, but it looked quite similar to the previous steak. I examined it closely and could tell it wasn’t fried—most likely boiled. I took a small bite. It was edible now, but definitely lacked flavor. As I continued to eat, I realized it had been steamed entirely. It tasted like the filling of dumplings, but without any spices. Blend. I realized and accepted that day that I can’t eat anything and everything. During my visit to Paris later, I ordered steak again because I wanted to try the French version. However, this time I made sure I ordered it cooked.