GUEST: Hannah Weeks, The Big Texan Steak Ranch

Link to The Big Texan website.

In the bare interrogation room beneath the Strategic Scientific Reserve headquarters in London, Dr. Arnim Zola studies the empty gurney, his eyes catching the dried blood crusted beneath it. Realization dawns—this is no mere holding cell, but a place for brutal interrogations.

The cell door swings open, and an MP ushers in Colonel Phillips, who carries a metal tray. He sets it on the bare table with a deliberate clank.

“Sit down,” Phillips says, gesturing to the chair.

Zola, wary, sits as Phillips slides the tray toward him. On it, a formal meal: a steak, cutlery, and salt and pepper shakers. Zola eyes it suspiciously. “What is this?”

“Steak,” Phillips replies, his tone flat.

“What is in it?” Zola asks.

“Cow,” Phillips says. “Doctor, do you realize how difficult it is to get ahold of a prime cut like that out here?”

“I don’t eat meat,” Zola states.

“Why not?” Phillips presses.

“It disagrees with me,” Zola answers, his voice tight.

Phillips leans forward, his eyes hard. “How about cyanide? Does that give you the rumbly tummy, too?” The Colonel spins the tray so the meal faces his own side of the table.

Phillips picks up the knife and fork. “Every Hydra agent that we’ve tried to take alive has crunched a little pill before we can stop him.” He carves a juicy piece of steak, holding it on his fork. “But not you. So, here is my…”