“Are you sure that this is steak?” I asked Chris as I took the thin piece of red meat out of its wrapping.

“Well it had a picture of a cow on the front and it is red,” he said defensively, “and it is marinated – that may be what you’re picking up.”

The sliver of meat seemed hardly thick enough to be called a chunk, a slab, a fillet, a hunk, or any word you might associate with a juicy steak. I sprinkled it with salt and garlic, and popped it into the hot pan with the fried onion. It didn’t exactly sizzle, nor did it go brown, but I turned it over as per usual. It smelt nice but it looked peculiar.

“Surely Spanish people are not so different from us,” I thought, “What do they do with all the bulls after bullfights?”

It seemed unlikely to me that anyone would regard the odd bit of meat in the pan as a hearty steak. But what do I know? Although it did not brown, I guessed the steak was done, and I dared not overcook such a thin piece of meat. Just before taking it out of the pan I ran a sharp knife down the middle to cut it in half (Chris and I often share one piece, especially when it comes to lunches and snack meals).

I had to laugh; no, it wasn’t horse meat, and it wasn’t still alive or anything gruesome like that… Simply, it was layers of thinly sliced, already roasted beef and I had merely heated it up! Nevertheless, it tasted quite nice, if a bit salty, but there is no denying that it was a touch disappointing because it wasn’t actually steak. One day we really must learn a few basic words of Spanish, if only to avoid making silly misteaks.