Someone Who Only Eats Meat

You know that friend who orders a salad and picks at it like a bird? Well, meet the opposite: Carnivore Carl. He’s the human version of a T-Rex at a buffet—absolutely no lettuce allowed near his plate.

I’m talking about someone who only eats meat. Not a paleo dieter who cheats with a sweet potato, but a straight-up, full-on carnivore. Their grocery cart looks like a crime scene from a butcher’s paradise.

Breakfast of Champions (or Dinos)

I watched Carl make breakfast once. He cracked four eggs, fried a half-pound of bacon, and then slid a steak next to it. When I asked where the toast was, he looked at me like I’d offered him a slice of cardboard.

“That’s just a vehicle for butter,” he said, grinning. I felt judged for my very existence. It’s funny how a person who eats pure animal fat can make a bagel seem like the weird choice.

His coffee? Black. Cream comes from cows, and cows are meat-adjacent, so he’s fine with it. But don’t you dare put sugar in it. “Sugar is for bees and toddlers,” he’ll snort.

The Restaurant Shuffle

Going out to eat with a carnivore is a comedy show. You watch them turn the menu over three times, sigh, and then ask the waiter, “Can you just put a steak on a plate? No sides. Not even a garnish.”

The waiter always looks confused. “Sir, the steak comes with roasted vegetables and a potato puree.” Carl just stares. “I’d like to un-puree that potato, please. Actually, just throw it away.”

I’ve seen a waitress bring out an extra side of butter “just in case,” and Carl’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. Meanwhile, I’m over here negotiating with the menu to swap my fries for more fries.

The Logic (If You Can Call It That)

Why do they do it? Carl says he feels “clean” and “alert.” He claims his brain fog is gone, and now only meat fog remains. I asked him about fiber, and he compared it to “eating a rope.” You can’t argue with that level of commitment.

He says vegetables are “nature’s attempt at cardboard.” On a good day, he might allow a pickle—but only if it’s been soaking in beef tallow. Honestly, I’m not even sure he drinks water, or just lets the steak juice do the hydrating.

I tried it for a weekend. By Sunday, I was dreaming of apples and crying into a pork chop. It turns out my body really likes a crunchy texture that isn’t a chicken bone.

The Social Side Effects

Thanksgiving is a minefield. Everyone brings a casserole, and Carl brings a whole roast. He’ll sit there, eating turkey, ham, and a separate pork shoulder, while your aunt asks if he wants some green bean casserole. “That’s just green beans and regret, Carol,” he says. The table goes silent.

But here’s the thing: carnivores are surprisingly easy hosts. You come over, and there’s meat. In the fridge? Meat. In the freezer? More meat. On the counter? Probably a salt block for searing. The bathroom smells like a smokehouse, but you’ll never go hungry.

They’re also fiercely loyal. If you’re a meat friend, you’re in the tribe. They’ll share their brisket like a dragon sharing a hoard of gold. Just don’t ask for a side of coleslaw.

What I’ve Learned

Living near one has taught me that we’re all a little weird with food. I stress-eat carbs; they stress-eat entire cows. It’s a spectrum, and honestly, I respect the audacity.

Carl never gets sick. He claims he hasn’t had a cold in years. I think it’s because no virus has the guts to enter a body that smells like a grill. That, or the sheer density of protein just scares the germs away.

So next time you see someone ordering a double burger without the bun, hold your judgment. They’re not missing anything. They’re just on a different adventure—one where the only food group is “yes, and please make it rare.”

And who knows? Maybe they’re onto something. Or maybe they’re just really, really committed to the bit. Either way, pass the steak sauce. I think I’m ready for one bite.