Gerzsi

You hear the Gilded Gravy before you see it: a floating steakhouse with golden railings, a brass band and a sign that flashes BEST STEAK ON THE RIVER. Its cook is Reggie the raccoon. Reggie owns fourteen kitchen gadgets, and he will tell you about every single one.

“A beaver cook?” he laughed when we tied up. “Steak cook-off. You and me. Medium-rare. Winner gets bragging rights for the whole river.”

I said yes before Chef Tamás could stop me.

Reggie had a robot stirrer, a laser something and a pan that played music. I had one stainless skillet and an old cookbook trick: poke the steak, and if it feels like the base of your thumb, it’s done. Small problem. Beavers don’t have that kind of thumb.

My first steak came out somewhere between “rare” and “still mooing.” The judge, an old heron, was very polite about it.

Then Chef Tamás quietly slipped something into my apron pocket: a little instant-read thermometer. “Don’t poke. Don’t guess. Let the number decide.”

My second steak was perfect, edge to edge. Reggie’s was perfect too, but his musical pan had played the same song forty-one times and the heron had gone to lie down. We called it a draw. Reggie said it wasn’t. Reggie will probably be back.

Gerzsi and his friends (and rivals) are made up. Chef Tamás and his lessons are real.