Popping the Cherry of a Pork Steak Virgin

Pork steaks are quintessentially a Midwest phenomenon, which for some reason the rest of the country hasn’t caught on to. They come from pork butt, which is actually the pig’s shoulder, and where pulled pork comes from.  For non-natives, it can be a confusing concept.  Why?  Why they ask. 

            The only way to answer that is through demonstration.  And if you’re going to introduce someone to pork steaks, there is no better way than to get the ones we smoke at the shop. 

            “Hey Max, can we smoke some pork steaks today?”

            “What do I look like I want to work?”

            “You don’t have to, I’ll do all the work.”

            “‘I’ll do all the work.’  Yeah right.  I’ve heard that from a woman before.”

            “Oh yeah?  Well I’ve never heard that from a man before.”

            It’s only 9:30; he just needs some time to perk up.

            In a quarter of an hour, Max is out back recapping how to use the propane flamethrower we light the big smoker with.  I’ve only done this once before, so I don’t object to a refresher course. 

The Day I Found Out that I have a "Reputation"

One Saturday night, I was invited to a Victorian salon at a burlesque studio.  I donned fishnets and a short satiny one-shoulder red dress and pinned flowers in my hair.  I drank merlot.  I was wicked fancy.  (Haha)  In the torch-lit backyard of the studio whilst aerialists fluttered overhead, I met a very charming knife thrower who makes his own knives out of old saw blades.  (I should make mention that a large branch of the St. Louis burlesque scene has intertwined with sideshow carnivale acts, so it was not at all unusual that he should be in attendance of this soiree.)  I’d actually seen him perform some months before, so I sort of knew who he was. 

Sizzling

Okay now, we’re gonna take this slow. . . .

The aroma of house-cured bacon fills me like a drug.  As I inhale, my eyes roll back in my head and an “. . . oh, baby. . . .” escapes my lips in a husky whisper.  Oh my . . . that is a mighty hot pan . . . scorching.

Burt has been curing his own bacon for years, but never tried selling it at the shop, till I told him he could be charging upwards of $12 a pound for “Artisan” Bacon.

I’ve never had bacon this thick before.  Burt cut it by hand rather than using the deli slicer; it’s about half an inch thick.  And he gave me the “ugly” end pieces, which are even thicker.  Nobody buys them because they’re deformed, but I will take them in and love them just the same. 

The People of the Shop

This is what happens when Max isn’t here.  When I come in and the first thing I have to do is clean the deli slicer because it’s just sitting in the dirty dish water, and I didn’t use the deli slicer . . . it’s a bit disheartening.  But such is life in a butcher shop.  Shit has to be clean.  And I want knowledge; therefore, dues must be paid. 

            Max is the part-time worker; brother of the owner, Burt.  A short, mustached, slightly grizzled, energetic man, Max and I took to each other immediately.  He’s constantly moving; constantly cleaning up Tommy’s mess. . . . Max and I are like the laborers—the grunts—we got along like old friends after only a few hours together.  And after a few weeks Burt started referring to Max as my “boyfriend.”  For example:  “Your boyfriend slept through his Sunday shift and never called, so Grace took his Sundays away.”  I try to go in on Saturdays now. 

Excerpt from "Cleaving" by Julie Powell

Because there are some things that I just can’t put any more succinctly:  

            “You know, I was thinking,” Colin muses, as his thick fingers performs the delicate knotwork.  “I think every time I read the word butchery from now on, it’s going to piss me off.”

            “How so?”
            “Well, you know, I read a lot of history.  You know, military history.  And I’ll come across sentences about ‘butchery on the battlefield,’ like butchery means something is bloody and messy and, I don’t know, unskilled.  And it offends me a little, frankly.  Because butchery is just the opposite of that.”
            —Cleaving, by Julie Powell (2009)

Who the Hell Am I and What the Hell do I Think I’m Doing?

Hey there.  I like food.  Like, a lot.  So much so that I decided to start spending my weekends buried up to my elbows in raw meat in order to learn the lost art of meat fabrication.  I apprentice at a butcher shop, but it’s not a traditional butcher shop—those are very rare these days, the big cutting is done at slaughter houses most of the time.  We get sectional cuts, but not whole animals like they used to back in the day.  So unfortunately, there is a very finite amount of knowledge that I can gain from this shop before I’ll have to move on.  However, since I’m only there on weekends (and not even every weekend), it’ll be some time before I reach that point.    

I am not a chef, I didn’t go to culinary school, and I have no special training.  I'm not overly impressed with myself; I don't by any means think I'm covering any new ground.  I know that food bloggers are a dime a dozen and I've long dreaded them and particularly dreaded becoming one.  But I believe that there is a very sensual, physical connection between humans and food, and a “food-gasm” is not mere fantasy.  I believe that there is no valid excuse to eat Ramen unless you are living in a college dorm, and life is too short to not try new things.  I’ll admit, I feel a twinge of disdain when I go to a restaurant with someone who always orders chicken strips and fries no matter where we go.  There are just too many good things to limit yourself. 

Beginning in the Middle: Two Adventures for the Price of One

I glance down at the back of my hand to see blood spreading across the small knuckle of my middle finger.  First thought:  Is it my blood?  Press it against my red apron and look again; yep my blood.  Second thought:  what was I just doing . . . was I using a knife?  No, I was getting ice for a soda . . . now I have to make sure there’s no blood in the ice bucket.
            I’m struggling today; been fighting bronchitis and a sinus infection for almost two weeks, doing nothing but getting soft.  I have fat, blood, meat, and seasoning under my nails, but that doesn’t bother me; weeks ago I bought a nail brush for my shower because I learned that gunk from the shop doesn’t come out with normal washing. 
           The shop is busy today, and Max and Tommy are arguing like an old married couple, but Max has been unusually catty with me too.  Tommy keeps yelling at him to stop yelling at me.  Max isn’t “yelling” at me per se, just loudly inquiring.  Burt is kind of a mess today; cussing under his breath, too many balls in the air, letting it get to him more than he should.  I can tell he’s in pain, too; he got a cortisone shot in his back this week, but they didn’t get it in the spot where he needed it.