Tamalehawk took a haphazard stab at a slab of flank steak, and created make or break stakes by braving an Argentinian butcher who shot his way an array of looks that seem to say, "Just this once, stranger. Just today." Tamalehawk flew the coop, aliment flailing, with plans to master the plank of thankless flank.
He scoured the depths of the web in search of marinades, unguents, and poultices, but didn't have any kind of time to soak, smear, and slather. He commanded his stand-bys of olive oil, garlic, and shallots for quick dip before casting it into the pan. Some accompanying veg dredged in the pooling juices and he was already looking forward to steak sandwiches the next day.
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