I have four friends. I mean, sure, I have more friends elsewhere, but at the University of Chicago, where I'm a graduate student in a small program, there are four people that I see with any regularity. I like them. They're fun. But one of them is something I have never known before: a vegan. That means he eats nothing that comes from an animal. No meat. No dairy. No eggs. He does this for both ethical and health reasons, which seem to have panned out well for him, since he's over thirty and looks like a 16-year-old lifeguard. Nevertheless, I am a carnivore. An elementary school food-chain chart would show me eating my vegan friend. I've always liked the challenge of roasting a bird, but my first Chicago winter, which I survived through braising alone, sealed the deal, and at this point all I need is a hyena-skin thong and I will officially be a cavewoman.
Sometimes I have to double check with him about what he's allowed to eat. "Surely you can have camembert," I suggest. "A little knockwurst won't hurt. Put some hair on your chest!" I feel like a conservative grandmother who refuses to accept that her grandson is gay, and holds up Playboy centerfolds in front of him with a lewd "How 'bout those knockers, eh?" Either I completely forget his dietary restrictions (I hand him half a tuna sandwich and tell him he can thank me later) or I instinctively treat him like he is a weakling with a disease. "Do you need help down the stairs?" I turn to him by mid-morning and with a sympathetic nod of my head I inquire if he's tired. I think it's fair to say that I have been less than sensitive, and he's been a great sport. As one of my four friends, he comes to my many meat-centric dinner parties. When I unwrapped my gorgeous 9-lb bone-in leg of lamb for Easter lunch and discovered the leg joint was intact, he watched me dance it across the counter, puppeteering raw meat high-kicks and singing "Luck Be a Lady." He even smiled accommodatingly. But there is a line, with even the friendliest, most understanding vegan. And that line was drawn by Fergus Henderson. I suspect that any recipe from Henderson's The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating would not go over well with your standard vegan, but if there is an utter epitome to meat-eating, Henderson's roasted marrow bones would be it. The roasted bones ooze fat and gelatinous, rendered marrow that requires cro-magnon effort to scoop onto toasts. I served them triumphantly. Empty bones were thrown down, chins were wiped of grease. And that was it—after countless roasts, osso buco, a lamb cancan and, now that I think about it, even the ultimate vegan insult of an Easter egg hunt (whoops), I looked at his face and saw that Bone Marrow Night was the last straw. He looked ill. I felt terrible. I hope that cheesecake I sent him smoothed things over alright.
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