Some steak-of-the-art snobs say that the mere ordering of steak in a restaurant is an art form. Others apply the term "art" to proper grilling. That's overkill. But we can all agree not to emulate my friend's request that a waiter serve his steak tartar "medium rare."
There I was, in the 8th arrondissement with a spoonful of dijon in one hand and a forkful of bright pink tartare in the other. A quiet babble of French conversation streamed around me.
In exchange (ultimately for their lives), they received protection from predators, assistance in bearing young and even rudimentary health care. What would become of our domesticated animals if we were to stop eating them?
This Halloween, skip the usual pumpkin overload in favor of something more literal. Channel your inner flesh-eating monster with thirteen actually cre...