What a sad tale.
We wanted a little steak tartare to eat on Valentine's Day. It so happens the oysters done us in that day, and we didn't crave the beef, so we popped it into the freezer for a while.
We got this meat from a really great butcher. I love the guy. A couple of years ago, he sold us a trimming of aged Chateaubriand to make our steak tartare; it was too small for anything else. And he offered to grind it. (Non, monsieur! We will knife it at home, primally and perfectly, and we don't want that spurt of ground turkey that's lurking in your machine.)
It was really good. Really.
This time, Cranky asked if there were any such luxury items in the "too small" case.
The butcher got a little testy! "I will not sell you Chateaubriand for steak tartare! Take this sirloin tip; it's traditional. You want me to grind it?"
Sigh. No, thanks. We'll take it, but no grindy.
We were in love with our knifing technique. So much, that I wouldn't even let Cranky do it; I had to have the honors.
But I couldn't do it. The meat was too tough.
Cranky got in there and made mincemeat of the meat, and I stepped up and blended in the chopped capers, shallot, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco and a bit of egg yolk. Black pepper. And then I tasted it, for taste.
Tasted fine. Couldn't chew it.
Cranky tasted it, and immediately said, we are cooking this.
It made pretty decent hamburgers, but they fell apart because of all the junk in there.