Madeline stared at the round, paper-thin slices of deep red, lean meat resting on the bed of arugulla and radicchio on her bone-white porcelain plate and tried to calm her roiling feelings. Her attraction to the beautiful presentation and her repulsion by what she was confronted with in fact warred silently within her. "I don't know if I can do it. It's cold and it's raw and really, I'm really not at all sure." The delicate slices were carved so finely that they were almost translucent. They were drizzled sparingly with virgin olive oil and aged balsamic vinegar. Her stomach had been a bit queasy anyway. Praying that her troubled innards would not emit any rude noises, she looked up sheepishly and saw her friends' awkward smiles.

"It's really a very special treat," Ashley offered sympathetically. "You should really try it, but, please, don't force yourself on our account, if you really don't want to. It's still a free country - right?"

"Everyone says that the carpaccio at Les Guérillères is the best. The owner, Valerie Cerú, swears by the genuine authenticity of everything they serve. If you don't want your share, it's okay - all the more for me," said Brenda with a bit too much enthusiasm.

Madeline sensed the server standing beside her with the oversized pepper mill and looking to her - of all people - for direction. She didn't know what to say, because she had never eaten carpaccio before and wasn't even certain that she would eat it now.

Increasingly impatient, the tuxedoed server gave her a totally unprofessional puzzled look. Madeline felt an embarrassed blush warm her cheeks. She knew that others could see it too but she really didn't know what to say.

"Give us a few turns of fresh pepper, please," said Ashley, coming late to her rescue, no more than seconds late.

Politeness was not strong enough to stay Brenda's hand any longer. Eagerly, she wielded her fork and speared her first slice. She ate with gusto.

Madeline watched her stuff the uncooked flesh into her mouth in awe. "It looks so slimy." She couldn't help herself and wrinkled her nose in distaste. Madeline's reluctance had no effect on her friends who ignored her and her aesthetic concerns and ate with delight.

Brenda was too busy eating to respond. Ashley took her first slice, deftly lifting it on her fork and maneuvering it to her appetizer plate.

"You know, guys, I just can't do it," Madeline confessed. "I wanted too and I tried. But really! Think about it, carpaccio comes from cows. Imagine a poor cow, standing in the field, chewing her cud peaceably and giving milk to her cute little calf. What did she do to get her throat cut, and the flesh ripped from her bones for our enjoyment?" Ashley and Brenda were too busy eating to take notice.

When little Selim was born, his mother was exuberant, even though everyone wanted a daughter these days. While life had improved immeasurably after the Revolution, a poor person still had few ways to earn such a nice nest egg in the impoverished Crimea. A boy was one of them - money in the bank and an education for his sisters. After he was weaned, she sent him to live on her mother's farm where he would be easier to keep than in the crowded city. He grew up with the chickens and goats and ran freely on the farm. He ate with enthusiasm and drank prodigious quantities of the national beverage, koumiss, fermented mare's milk. Puberty hit and his rate of growth accelerated. His mother and his younger sisters marveled at his transformation but mourned the rapid disappearance of the cute little joey and the emergence of a testosterone-poisoned mature male.

He brought a good price from the buyer in Sevastapol and the buyer received an even better price from Valerie Cerú, a stickler for authenticity, and Les Guérillères restaurant in the United States. She knew that the Revolution had resulted in a demand for male flesh and skins in the United States that even the increased percentage of male births in the U.S. could not fully satisfy. Les Guérillères had a standing order for a male a week from Sevastapol of all places.

The olive complexioned Crimean with straight black hair was compact and wiry. He had little body hair. He appeared to be even scrawny compared to the larger, brawnier males who occupied most of the pens at the ranchette outside of Steinham where Valerie housed the males for her restaurant.

Selim was confused. He had grown up in the Crimea where everyone looked very much like him. Here, except for some blue-black African Americans who also dwarfed him in size, he saw large, pale skinned, bulky males with exuberant body hair. He was smaller than many of the women. Their eyes and manner told him that they thought he was cute. He couldn't speak their language at all, but they treated him kindly enough.

Every day on the ranchette was very much like any other. Males arrived with no explanation and males were removed with no explanation and never returned. Every few days, new males were delivered much like the ones who had been taken away. Only once, he had seen a male who looked very much like himself, but they had never had a chance to speak. Selim was curious but no one spoke his language and if they had, he suspected that no one would have much interest in his questions.

One day before dawn, Selim was restrained and hooded and taken away by truck. He was not taken to the abattoir that had processed the other males. He was taken alive to the restaurant, Les Guérillères.

He smelled the blood right away. He was left standing by himself for quite a while. Friday was a busy day at Les Guérillères and activity bustled around him in the busy kitchen, getting ready for the weekend trade. He could see little under his hood. However, if he turned his head a certain way, he could see something of his surroundings. As long as he was quiet, no one cared exactly what he did.

What he saw only increased his agitation. Selim saw split male carcasses broken down into quarters. He saw the tenderloins stripped from body cavities already emptied of viscera. He saw hindquarters being broken down into hams, rumps, haunches and saddles. He saw fore quarters broken down into ribs and shoulders. He caught a glimpse of a cooler where a dozen flayed male carcasses hung headless, waiting for a butcher's attention. He saw a bored second assistant meat chef work her way methodically through a sizeable pile a male genitals, separating the cocks from the balls, slitting open ball sacs and deftly freeing the plump balls from their various membranes and attachments. His overwhelmed mind simply refused to process the jumble of horrific images.

Suddenly, he felt a hand push strongly on his back. He stumbled forward; he tripped over his ankle shackles, and bumped into a counter or table. He tried to take a step back, limited as he was by his shackles, and backed into someone who had stepped in behind him, quietly and unseen. Stiffed, starched cloth rubbed roughly against his bare skin. Warm breath tickled his neck as strong hands grasped his shoulders and pushed his upper body forward. All remained dark under the hood, but he sensed the moist odors of the sink. He felt nothing at all when the first assistant meat chef drew her razor sharp blade smoothly across his throat. Rich blood welled up to fill the cut and gushed into the sink.

He was still alive when his limp body was hoisted on to the worktable and his shackles were removed. His life had fled before the second assistant meat chef eviscerated him.

 

The tuxedoed waitress wheeled over her serving cart. With a theatrical flourish, she combined a ball of freshly ground meat with pungent brown mustard, olive oil, egg yolks, chopped onions, chopped chives, and chopped gherkins right before their impressed eyes. Then she added an assortment of carefully measured spices and spooned the heap onto a bed of romaine lettuce surround by mounds of chopped onions, chopped gherkins, capers, and chopped hard boiled eggs. Again, the presentation was stunningly beautiful.

"Maybe you'll like this better, Madeline." Ashley said hopefully.

"If she doesn't, I'm always glad to eat her share," offered Brenda generously.

"We knew!" said Ashley.

Madeline looked at the beautiful platter suspiciously. The aroma was appetizing, but it was raw and cold, just like the carpaccio.

Valerie Cerú passed among the tables. She was very proud of Les Les Guérillères and its authentic post Revolutionary cuisine. She was especially proud of the bona fide special Steak Tatar that she served on weekends.

"How do you like our specialty?" she asked the diners fully confident of their positive response. The server stood at a casual attention in the presence of her boss.

"Delicious," answered Brenda with her mouth full.

Cat-like, Ashley 's tongue retrieved a bit of Steak Tatar that rested on her lower lip. She delicately daubed her mouth with her napkin, leaving a faint lipstick stain. "Really, delicious," she agreed enthusiastically.

"This is our very special Steak Tatar," Valerie said proudly.

"Why is it special?" said Madeline, still eying the beautifully presented platter apprehensively.

"We make our special authentic Steak Tatar on weekends from a real authentic freshly killed Tatar."

Madeline remembered the small but unmistakable emblem of PET'M, People for the Ethical Treatment of Males, on the front window. The establishment needed such a sign only if they worked with living males.

Valerie's finger swept a smear of steak that had stuck to the side of the mixing bowl. She tasted it and nodded her head in approval. The server visibly relaxed and almost sighed audibly. "Tonight - Crimean Tatar. With practice, you can taste the differences from the Central Asian varieties. The distinctive flavor comes form the fermented mares' milk they drink."

Madeline marveled at Valerie Cerú's well-known expertise. "This isn't beef, is it? Promise?"

"No. One hundred percent Crimean Tatar, freshly slaughtered - earlier today - never frozen - never even refrigerated."

"I'll try it!" Madeline said with determination. She had vast sympathy for all living things - the graceful creatures of the wild and trusting domestic creatures, long the friends and companions of human kind. Her generous spirit did not extend to human males who had nearly destroyed the world with their alacrity for violence and enthusiasm for destruction. Some said that the evolution of civilization itself was the gradual triumph of female intelligence over male size and brute strength. Her friends marveled at her change of heart. The Steak Tatar was truly delicious.

The server retreated with her serving cart, in awe of Ms. Valerie Cerú, as always. A fine restaurant offered bread and circus - food and entertainment. Valerie's knowledge was unmatched and so was her showmanship. She maintained the highest standards, beginning with the selection and storage of raw materials and ending only with the most outstanding presentation of every carefully crafted dish. Many can distinguish Steak Tatar made from domestic or imported tenderloins., because of differences in diet. However, no one whom the waitess knew could in fact distinguish between Steak Tatar made with a Crimean or Central Asian Tatar.

Selim's left tenderloin and the remainder of his right tenderloin lay in the kitchen waiting for the next order of steak Tatar.