There’s just something about a meat market, isn’t there?
I’m not talking about the meat department at your local grocery store, I’m talking about the good ol’ days gone by. The days before hairnets and beardnets and gloves galore.
Everyone dressed in white. The clean, sterility of the environment. Chrome shined to perfection. A knowledgeable staff ready to answer your questions.
My grandfather would only purchase his meat from a butcher shop. A couple of steaks, a roast, some bratwurst, braunschweiger for lunches … and all of it fresh. He’d haggle just a little bit, too. If he felt he bought enough he’d brazenly ask if they’d throw in a couple of “skinny pork chops.” My grandfather always insisted we sample the summer sausage, too. Rarely would he make a purchase, he’d always say, “maybe next week.”
The display cases were beautiful. All meat was sorted and displayed with pride. Giant metal trays lined with waxy paper and parsley tucked in the corners for our visual pleasure. You’ve got your pork region, your beef region, the chicken region, and the region we never visited … the land of the lamb.
I loved the spicy smell of a proper butcher shop, too. And the cool crisp air. All of it. Even the irritating grinding of what must have been the largest saw I could never imagine. It was truly a treat for each and every one of senses.
I was an obedient child, seen and not heard because those were the rules. But I wanted to get closer to the meat. I wanted a good strong whiff. I had to be closer. I knew I couldn’t touch, but I was determined to put my nose as close to that displace case full of meat. The second no one was looking, I was going in and then pull myself back to perfect posture and absolutely no one would know. Oh, I watched. And I watched and week after week I would plan and scope and watch and wait.
And then the opportunity came, my grandfather was down at the far end of the counter while I was staring lovingly into the display case, being all good and proper and not speaking. They were discussing holiday hams. Advantages of boneless versus bone-in. And I made my move. I got as close as possible to the meat, bent at the waist, and went swiftly full-speed forward. And that’s when I smacked my head so ridiculously hard against the glass. How could I not know there was glass? I’ll tell you why … because everything in the meat market was always pristine. From the squeaky, well-swept wooden floors to the dust-free ceiling fans. Every speck of that place was cleaner than clean.
My grandfather raced over, I got a severe swat on the bottom and a tremendous lecture. I had a huge egg on my forehead and a pair of black eyes that seemed to last forever. I didn’t know how to tell him I just wanted to get a good whiff.
I was six.
