You shouldn’t be afraid of steak tartare

Whenever I think of steak tartare, I can’t help but remember a heartbreaking passage in Nigel Slater’s memoir Toast. Slater, working at a French restaurant in a Midlands hotel as a young man, is desperate to try the steak Diane. He books a table there for himself and a date. In a moment of madness, he accidentally orders the steak tartare instead. Expecting a rich, cream-spiked, butter-fried, brandy-flambéed steak, he is first surprised, and then horrified when a waiter begins chopping up raw meat alongside him. ‘I felt cold, then hot, then cold again. The little egg yolks seemed to be looking up at me, laughing. Then everyone was laughing.’ He goes outside and faints.

Perhaps this is not the best introduction to a dish that I’m suggesting you make, but it’s stuck with me. For those who already love steak tartare, it needs no sales pitch: it is the chicest, most delicious way of eating beef fillet, a treat in every sense. It is mellow and punchy, compact and expansive. But to those who don’t, it can be a hard sell. It is, after all, chopped raw meat served with a raw egg yolk. Although I note that Slater has his own recipe for the French classic, so I assume he at least has been won over.

While I’m not suggesting you serve it as a starter for your next dinner party, if you’re at all tartare-curious, then I’d urge you to give it a go. And if you’re used to eating it only at a restaurant, then it’s high time you sharpened your best knife. I’m not sure I can quite justify this, but I think there’s actually something terribly romantic, intimate even, about steak tartare prepared for two and eaten at home.