Lamb Osso Bucco

By GREG MAFFETT
Published: March 12, 2011

So there it is. Lamb Osso Bucco.

I'd avoided ordering for the same reason many people avoid Cabernet Sauvignon in the early days of the US wine boom. I had never heard the word spoken and didn't want to mispronounce it. But after a beer or two I took a stab, figuring I could blame it on the beer if it came out wrong.

The meat was perfectly prepared. Fell off the bone. There was a delay in the service as they had to make the au jus fresh. It was excellent. The root veggies could have been cooked a few more minutes, but that is quibbling. I'm pretty sure this is how the dish is supposed to go.

It wasn't for me though. I knew I was eating a lamb shoulder. My view on this goes as follows. If a lamb is going to give up it's life for my dinner, I'd like it to be done in the best possible way. This was simply a bit too rustic. I'd have preferred it done just about any other way. Some spice, a bit more seasoning. I can see how a purist would like it this way, but it just didn't work for me.

About two hours before eating this dinner, I had a life and death moment of my own. Not a near death experience mind you, just life reminding me that like that lamb I'll not be around forever.

I was putting my bike back in my garage. I've been in my house close to three years now and not much has changed. I have three other bikes in the garage. There are three surfboards there also. Barring a theft, all those bikes will still be there when I'm gone. There may be another board or two, but knowing me, my garage will look a lot like it does today when I'm gone.

It was comforting to realize this. The idea that at the moment I pass from this world, my stuff will still be in the garage. It is more permanent than I. I felt good about that as I walked to the restaurant for dinner.

And dinner was progressing well. I moved from the Osso Bucco on to Cheesecake for dessert. By this time there was a young lass at the table across from me. When I looked up from my cheesecake, her gaze quickly turned away from me, as if she had been busted. I didn't mind.

Shortly thereafter, three more women came in. They were unabashedly staring at my table. Once again, I didn't mind. I knew what it was about.

That cheesecake looked really good. So good, in fact, I won't post a picture here.

But I will post this other picture that I think sums up nicely my view of how I expect my nights on the town to end.

Clint Eastwood had me covered on this one. His Dirty Harry line "Do you feel lucky? Well do you punk?"

I think this photo of how I leave my dresser before going out on a Friday night will answer that question quite nicely.