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Metaphysics of Steak Tartare

Author: Adam Tomasz Witczak, better known under his nom de guerre et nom de plume Reverend ATW. The essay was first published in the 22nd issue of the online periodical Młodzież Imperium ("Youth of the Empire").

This article was made by the Secret Sons of Poland yurt-collective without the knowledge or consent of the original author. True National Bolshevik steppe fascists do not care about "consent".

"We will blow up Europe, call Scythians our friends and drink for the Bruderschaft with the Tatars," says Friedrich Georg Jünger, brother of Ernst. Before we feast with slant-eyed barbarians among the ruins of Europe, though, we could drink to friendship between ourselves, picking at steak tartare made of raw meat and equally raw egg — this will be enough, as we must remember that "journey of that kind is always possible, even if you are not eighteen anymore".

Steak tartare is a National Bolshevik meal through and through, Eurasian in its deepmost essence. The first act of consuming it is a ritual of passage. The intensity of this experience can solely be compared to a passage in Edward Niziurski's young adult novel The Seventh Initiation when the protagonists eat a horseradish root during a secular ceremony celebrating the incorporation of new members into a juvenile gang. Concurrently, every act of consuming steak tartare is an act of rebellion (both in the revolutionary and Traditionalist meaning of the word) — a strike against the philistine roasted pork knuckle, the bourgeois "schnitzel served with potatoes and steamed cabbage". It presents a "slap in the face of public taste"—due to everything that makes steak tartare offend and attack the bourgeoisie.

Steak tartare—its raw meat, meat not subjected to frying, roasting, smoking, cooking, therefore not treated, served without any polish, any attempts at finesse, effeminacy. Frying, roasting, cooking—how often do those procedures, no matter how useful (as far as they remain anchored in the archaic framework of the Tradition) become reduced to impotent babbling and decadent tediousness, defied by steak tartare through its alacrity, impulsiveness, brutality born of the Steppe.

Tatar—its danger, cold, simplicity born in a nomad's yurt, in the tent of a Eurasian Fascist dining before the frontal assault against the Atlantic civilisation. That assault may begin at any given moment and be conducted with all possible means — for only the spiritual struggle is important, the inner fight in the world of ideas (the Great Jihad). Therefore, a steak tartare consumed in one of Wrocław's bistros or in front of a laptop screen can be as potent as the same meal devoured among the whirling warfare, during the brief intervals between subsequent "storms of steel". For the inner stance is of importance—the correct way of celebration is determined by the condition of the spirit. "For we love what is subconscious; tempted by vodka, the egg and steak tartare."

For not only the meat is raw, but also the egg—a symbol of genesis and birth. The rawness of the egg enlivens the rawness of the meat, and through that matter is infused with the spiritual element, the pneuma. In this way, the eternal return of the Kshatriya archetype is accomplished. The alchemical process of mingling the cold, raw egg yolk with flesh means transgression of the Axial Age, a transcendent transformation into a higher quality, completeness formed by the mixture of the two substances.

Serve steak tartare at your table—and be aware of the response of your guests! Without fail, you will recognise a veritable fascist, who adores that delicacy—from a two-faced "National Capitalist" and "limp-wristed rightist" whose expression will twist up with disgust and uneasiness, even if he eventually manages to swallow a few bites.

The steak tartare of the Blood Religion... The steak tartare among the dissolution of forms, at the heart of the solar circle, radiating hundreds of ideologies, intertwining inside the postmodernist cauldron to lay the foundations of the New Imperivm... The cosmic steak tartare à la Dugin, swallowed through eternity by the Headless Akephalos and so on so on bluh bluh bluh...