PATRICK MCVAY

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Bonehead

With more than two decades of frequenting restaurants under my belt, I have had the opportunity to bring home many pounds of meal remnants, but last Saturday’s visit to the uber high-end Cambridge Restaurant Craigie on Main had me ambling out with just a three-inch length of beef bone that had not a single fiber of meat on it. Having inadvertently ordered the marrow bone side dish (I thought I had merely agreed to include it as one of our tasting menu courses), I was not about to leave the establishment without taking rightful possession of my lonesome bone.

No doubt, this blog’s sophisticated readership gets plenty of marrow in its diet, given its health-conscious nature and the fact that doctors are pushing so hard for us to eat more marrow these days, but to be honest, a lout such as myself eats precious little bone-innards and felt the time was right to join my more cultured brethren.

The bouncily energetic Craigie “runner” (they don’t have “wait” staff, it seems), advised me to treat the marrow like butter and slather the fatty goo onto toast, as high-end physicians I was probably surrounded by in the dining room were no doubt doing. I followed her instructions and had my fill rather quickly. Still, I forged ahead to the point of eating too much, and eventually had to give up and ask to have the last of three split shanks (halved lengthwise to facilitate in toast-sopping) wrapped so I could move onto something more suited to my crude palate, such as venison medallions.

When the check came and I saw an extra $10 on the already gag-inducing bill (for bones that I’d thought were part of the tasting menu), and feeling somewhat unwell, I concocted a passive scheme to have the offending skeletal remains eliminated from the tab. The final unscathed bone had been spirited away, never to be seen again, even though I clearly had dibs on it, and I called the effervescent runner on this point, assuming that by now it must be in the trash. My bone, please! She informed me that the bone was waiting to be picked up at the hostess stand, where it was currently enjoying free valet parking for stray bones.

So, alas, the bones stayed on the bill. The sole survivor of our meal now occupies an exulted, dark corner of my refrigerator. 

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