The Carnivore Project: Lamb by Dan Shute

Ah, Las Vegas: the Ikea of hedonism. Just as picking up a bath mat from Brent Cross is impossible without impulse purchasing four shower curtains, a kitchen unit and a lawn-mower, so it’s impossible to breakfast, or see a show, or buy a tacky snowglobe in Vegas without inadvertently surrendering to the tables – I challenge anyone to ask for directions without hearing the phrase ‘Go through the Casino…’ It’s a bizarre place, an inhuman place, a city that reeks of heady despair imbued with a fatal trace of hope: a place where people drink scotch at 7am whilst tossing their daughter’s college fund desperately towards the dour dealer who’s seen a million other people lose everything and never once given the slightest of shits.

Yes, well spotted; it’s time for a tortuous analogy.

Burgers. Las Vegas. Can’t you see it? Both seem like really good ideas at the time, both give you a slightly sickly high when you’re ensconced in them, and both (the majority of the time) make you feel sick as hell once you’re done with them. I won’t deny that a good burger, like a winning trip to Sin City, can be a wonderful thing: unfortunately, it’s also equally rare. Most burgers are bad burgers: and no amount of dousing in cheese, bacon, relish, avocado, pineapple, egg or any other bugger is going to change that.

I should say now that I don’t expect to win this. Pitching lamb against the burger is a bit like watching a CG recreation of the Welsh rugby team of the 70s taking on the England World-Cup-Winning XV of 2003; the Welsh side may be talented, skilful and a joy to behold, but the English are big bastards who would crush them mercilessly into the ground. (Apologies to the North Americans amongst us, but my knowledge of Football isn’t quite up to an equivalent analogy – I’d imagine it could have something to do with Martyball, but frankly I’m out of my depth already.)

The problem I and Lamb are facing is that this isn’t a site for gourmands; it’s not a site for epicureans. It’s a site for carnivores: ruthless, bloody, gnawing carnivores who are as likely to appreciate a subtle flavour as they are to go to the ballet. Furthermore, the majority of people reading this aren’t even purely carnivores; you’re American carnivores, aren’t you? Equipped with the oral sensibilities of a corpse, if a flavour doesn’t march up to you and kick you in the face (ideally followed by quickfire rabbit punches from its friends Billy Bacon and Monterey Jack, before Ricky Relish spits on your battered tastebuds) then you’re just not interested. I’ve just got back from a fortnight in the glorious states of Utah, Arizona, Nevada and Colorado and I didn’t so much enjoy the food as have the shit kicked out of me by it (I won’t go into detail on quite how ironic a turn of phrase that is). It’s like every meal is angry with you, from the heavily-spiced steak, to the fully-loaded burger, via the heart-attackingly aggressive refried beans: I guess that’s the way you like it.

Roast_lamb

But Christ, you’re missing out. A slow roasted leg of lamb is so simple, and so perfect, and yet it will never be feisty enough to win this. Why get excited about rich red meat delicately infused with rosemary and cloves when you can chomp down on a lump of gristle and onion in a bun? Why make time for meat so tender that it just falls off the bone when you can grind it up, douse it in relish and whack it in a floury bap? A perfectly prepared leg of lamb is more than a meal; it’s an experience that can change you. Whether it’s eaten in a country pub in the Wye Valley, in a farm kitchen in Waikato or in a Moorish Tavern in Cordoba, good lamb stays with you forever: a burger, on the other hand, will normally stay with you for two or three days. Less if you’re also eating lots of fibre.

A vote for lamb is more than a vote for good meat: it’s a vote for good eating, for taking your time, for pleasure over convenience. It’s a vote for everything that eating should be, and everything that this site should be about: it's a vote for good meat. A vote for Burgers is a vote for Vegas, and all the tawdry queasiness that they both represent. Your call.

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