I’m surprised to report that I survived the ordeal.
Despite countless other humans making it out of this experience alive over the years, something–maybe having to do with my mom’s penchant for making sure my dad always cooked meat past the point of toughness in order to ensure it wasn’t at all pink inside–has made me the sort of person who gets queasy just looking at an under-cooked burger.
Yet I also hate when the meat is charred on the outside–maybe due to the consistently well-done meat served to me at home–so there’s a very slim area where the meat is done exactly the way I like it.
When in doubt, I usually order medium. Then I change it to medium-well when I get nervous the meat will be too pink inside.
At the Green Parrot, an outdoor bar tucked under a bridge on Paradise Island (I admit part of the reason I went there was simply to be able to caption a picture of my food, “Cheeseburger in Paradise (Island)”), I went with medium. I mean, I was on vacation. While I am the type to worry about burger-cooking while on vacation, I chose to just let it happen and eat whatever came to me.
What came to me was the burger meant for the person next to me; while he got my medium-cooked burger, I received his medium-rare version. We didn’t confirm that was the case till he’d eaten almost all of his, and I had said, “Mine is really pink” about 16 times.
But hey, when in Paradise…well, I’m not sure what the end of that sentence is supposed to be, but I ate around the edge of the burger, not willing to risk an upset stomach just to prove I could be cool about meat not cooked exactly to my liking. Because I can’t, so why bother pretending?