Resting on the waxy side of the brown butcher paper, the ribeye is deep red — almost as dark as a ripe cherry.

Buttery ribbons of fat and meat — the spinalis — circle the lean red center; a shard of bone runs along one side, sliced sharp by an electrified blade. The slab hits the cutting board with a satisfying slap: dense and damp and pliant. It smells pungent and earthy, a scent developed during a few weeks of dry aging.

It is cold. For now.

The charcoal fire glows orange, so hot that waving a hand above the grill grates feels perilous. Your palm takes a few seconds to recover, but it’s really only hot enough when your family starts to feel the heat through the wall of the house.

When the smoke and sparks have subsided, only the heat remains, bending the light in the space above the fire.

Paved with salt and black pepper nearly as coarse as ice melt and glistening from a thin layer of olive oil, the steak hisses as it hits the gleaming steel grates. Flames lap at the oil and rendering fat, crisping the exterior into a dense crust.

The smoke is back, and the smell is unmistakable. Through the flames and clouds, you see a face in the window: Now your family is really concerned.

You don’t stab your steak with a fork. It’s been through enough. Instead you press it gently with a finger and flip it with a pair of tongs. Under the tree-bark texture of the seared surface, the meat is pliant.

You move your finger to your mouth and crunch a crystal of salt between your teeth. You press the steak again with the same finger and hope your family isn’t still staring at you out the window.

Rare? Medium rare? Who knows. They’re done when you say they’re done. And now they’re done.

Maybe there are potatoes and maybe there aren’t. Here is what there is: a knife. A cutting board. A massive piece of meat that smells like smoke and seeps red juices that run onto the table.

You cut away the long bone and carve thick slices, the tender beef and molten fat dissolving in the mouths of the family that has now forgiven you.

But the bone? And the chewy, rare beef that human incisors seem designed to pry free? That’s all yours.

Nestor Ramos can be reached at nestor.ramos@globe.com. Follow him on Twitter @NestorARamos.