My Two Offices: Reports by Day, Fire by Night

I remember Saturday very clearly because it was one of those days where everything comes together—fire, meat, friends, and this quiet feeling that life is actually very good if you don’t make it too complicated.

I didn’t cook just one thing. No, no… I made a small festival.

First, there was the tomahawk steak. Four kilograms. When you hold something like this in your hand, you already feel a bit like a king of the barbecue. Then I had three ribeye steaks, cut nicely, clean slices, like you respect the meat. But the real highlight, the thing where everyone later said, “Ralf, what is this?”—that was my experiment.

I found it somewhere on the internet. Sometimes you see something and you think, okay, this looks crazy enough, I have to try it.

Minced meat, good quality, from beef. Then two big onions, really big, chopped fine. Parsley—fresh, of course. Some proper steak spices. Mix it all together with your hands, not with a machine. You must feel it. Cooking is also about feeling, not only recipe.

Then comes the funny part. Tortilla wraps. You layer them—meat, tortilla, meat, tortilla—like building a small tower. Then you take a sharp knife, very sharp, and cut everything into cubes, about one centimeter. After that, you push the cubes onto kebab sticks. But not the simple ones—you need the ones with two spikes, so the meat doesn’t turn when it’s on the grill. Small detail, but very important. Like in life, yes? The small things decide everything.

On the grill, you must watch carefully. The meat has fat, and the fat makes fire. So you turn it, turn it again, move it, stay with it. No phone, no distraction. Just you and the fire.

And then I made a sauce. Butter in a pan, a bit of maple syrup, and some steak spice. When the meat is nearly finished, I brush it over. Then the flames come up—whoosh—and you must be quick, turn it, control it. It’s like dancing with the fire.

When we ate, it was quiet for a moment. That is always the best sign. And then the talking started—“I never tasted something like this.” That makes me happy. Really happy.

Cooking is my second office. Maybe even my real office.

Because the other office… that is something different.

At the moment, I feel like I am working too much. Every time, actually. There is so much work—inside, outside, distributors, reports—and everything must fit into five days. It doesn’t fit. It’s too much Excel, too many reports. Report here, report there, report, report, report.

I am a salesman for outside. I like to drive, to meet people, to talk, to shake hands. Not to sit in the office and write what I already did. Sometimes I ask myself, who reads all this? Maybe someone reads a little bit. Maybe not. I don’t know.

But I have one rule. At five o’clock, I stop.

I close the office door. The phone stays there. The laptop stays there. Finished.

Then I go to the kitchen. Or to the barbecue. That is my other office, yes—but a better one. There I cook for my wife. We drink coffee, we talk. That is life.

Of course, the work is still in my head sometimes. Especially when I push things to the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Then in the night, I wake up. Go to the toilet—this is normal when you are over sixty—and then I think. Not always good thoughts. Sometimes I am not so happy. But then I say to myself: “Okay, tomorrow. You do it tomorrow.” And then I can sleep again.

I learned this discipline also from earlier times.

When I was young, I worked as a car electrician. I loved it. Even when it was cold and I had to lie under a truck, it was still… I don’t know… it felt alive. Then the military came. I thought it would be bad. It was not. It was a very good time.

We worked together, lived together. In the evening, someone had a guitar, we had vodka, orange juice, we sang. Sometimes we finished work and said, “Let’s go to the beach.” And we went. Just like this. That was work, but it didn’t feel like work. It felt like life.

Later, I worked many years in an Austrian company. A family company. There, you could feel something—respect for people. Real respect. Not only words on a wall, but something you feel when you walk through the building.

Then one day, someone came and said, “I give you more money.” And I thought, okay, more money is good.

That was a mistake.

A big one.

Because money is not everything. Work-life balance, how people treat each other, how you feel in the company—that is much more important. You only understand this when you lose it.

Now I am in another company, also a family company, but different. More pressure. More “hire and fire.” Less… heart, maybe.

So I try to protect my life where I can.

Even when I travel, I keep my rules. If I have dinner with a distributor, we don’t talk about work all the time. No laptop, no presentations. We eat, we talk about life. Otherwise, next time he will say, “No, sorry, I have no time.”

And if I am alone in a hotel? Same thing. Work stays closed. I take my private phone, my private tablet. I relax.

But if I pass a good butcher on the way—ah, that is different. Then I stop. Always. Life must have priorities.

People sometimes tell me I should write a book. About the best roads, the best butchers, the best breakfasts. Maybe one day. But first, I have another book in my head.

Retirement… I am not afraid of it.

If tomorrow someone says, “Ralf, you are finished,” I say, “Okay.” I have my golf clubs. I have my barbecue. I have plans to build, to cook, to teach maybe other men how to cook. Because many cannot even boil water properly. This is a problem we must solve.

And maybe I make a small restaurant. Not open for everyone. Only for friends. Invitation only. You come, you eat, you enjoy. No stress.

That is, for me, the real balance.

Work is important. Yes. But life is not only reports and Excel. Life is fire, butter, a good piece of meat, a quiet evening, and someone sitting next to you saying, “This tastes fantastic.”

And then you know—you did something right.

Juicy Grilled Skewers – Umami Flavor

Ingredients:

• 1 kg Wagyu minced beef
• 2 large onions
• 1 bunch of parsley
• Confit garlic
• 5–7 wheat tortillas
• Approx. 1 tablespoon seasoning of your choice (e.g. steak seasoning – avoid very sweet rubs)

For the glaze:

• ½ pack of butter
• 2 tablespoons maple syrup
• The same seasoning as above

I remember the first time I saw this recipe, I thought, this cannot be normal. Tortillas, minced Wagyu, cubes on a stick… it sounds a little bit crazy. But sometimes the crazy ideas are the best ones, especially when fire is involved.

So I start simple.

First, I take one kilogram of Wagyu minced beef. Good meat—you see it already with your eyes, you feel it in your hands. Then two big onions, really big ones. I cut them fine, not too rough. A bunch of parsley, fresh, green, smelling like summer. And a bit of confit garlic, soft, deep flavour, not too sharp.

Everything goes into a bowl. I add about one tablespoon of steak seasoning—not too sweet, this is important. Then I mix it with my hands. Not with a spoon. You must feel the texture, how it comes together. That’s the moment where cooking begins, not before.

Then I take the tortillas. Five, six, maybe seven—it depends how hungry we are.

Now comes the fun part.

I lay one tortilla flat. On top, I spread a thin layer of the meat, maybe one centimetre. Then another tortilla. Again meat. Then tortilla again. Like building a small tower. It feels a bit like construction work, and I like that.

When the stack is ready, I take a very sharp knife. This is important. If the knife is not sharp, everything goes wrong.

I cut the whole thing into small cubes. Nice, clean pieces.

Then I take my skewers—but not the cheap ones. I use the ones with two spikes, so the meat does not turn when it’s on the grill. Small detail, big difference.

I push the cubes onto the skewers, one by one. Already here, you can imagine how it will taste.

The grill is hot. Not too aggressive, but ready.

I put the skewers on. And now—you stay there. No phone, no walking away. The fat from the Wagyu will drip, and the flames will come. You must turn them, move them, control the fire. It’s like a conversation between you and the grill.

While this is happening, I prepare the glaze.

Half a pack of butter goes into a pan. It melts slowly. Then I add two tablespoons of maple syrup. Sweet, but not too much. And a bit of the same seasoning again. It smells already incredible.

When the skewers are nearly finished, I take a brush and paint the glaze over the meat.

Then—whoosh—the flames come up. You turn, quickly, carefully. Again and again. This is the moment where everything comes together.

When it’s done, you take them off the grill. Maybe you let them rest a minute. Maybe you don’t. Sometimes patience is good, sometimes hunger wins.

And then you eat.

The outside is a little bit crispy, the inside is juicy, soft, full of flavour. The tortillas hold everything together. The glaze gives this sweet, smoky finish.

And when your friends are quiet for a few seconds after the first bite, you know—you did it right.