Steak
Wrap

December. Thirty-eight degrees. The patio heaters glowing orange like campfires on the edge of a frontier.

My father-in-law, Frank, does not like to lose and does not like to be cold. That night he was doing both. Down three strokes on the 16th at PopStroke The Colony, a downhill putt so fast it seemed to be running from something. He stood over it in his good wool coat, a man at war with gravity.

He hit it. It rolled four feet past. He said a word I won't repeat. I suggested we warm up. He agreed, which was the first thing he'd agreed with all evening.

Steak Wrap. Marinated steak, tender, deeply savory, the kind of comfort a person needs in winter. Peppery arugula. Roasted tomato. Balsamic onions, soft and sweet and a little dark, like a jazz record. And horseradish cream sauce, cool on the tongue and then, suddenly, clearing your sinuses and your conscience in a single blow.

Frank ate in silence. Not angry silence. Contented silence, the rarer kind.

Back out on the 17th, he lined up a twelve-footer, read it from both sides, and buried it.

"Horseradish," he said, tapping his chest. I didn't argue. You don't argue with a man who's finally warm.