Butcher This, Filet That

I should be at work, but instead I’m pretending to peruse the “Local Brews” section of the liquor department for the seventh time.

            Cory convinced me this would be good for me—maybe a chance to network with real butchers—but he couldn’t come because he’s out of town at a barbecue competition.  Seems like he’s competing somewhere almost every other week.

            It feels like ages since I’ve been behind the block.  The last real butchering I did was in Ste. Gen with Eli.  The opening of Foster’s restaurant keeps getting pushed back, and I don’t want to bother him because I know he’s really busy with that.  The last time I talked to him he said May first; I just read on interview he gave for St. Louis Magazine’ June issue, which didn’t have an opening date.  He posted a picture on Facebook of a shiny new tabletop bone saw and Dick Machine and I about crapped my pants.  No more dull hand saw!  
            And between two vacations, Mother’s Day, a head cold, and the start of summer—which means weekends fishing and/or camping out of town (signing up for that Sunday morning outdoor soccer league was a huge mistake)—I’ve seen very little of the shop.

            I feel stagnant.

I need to branch out.

So here I am.
            . . . looking awkward as hell, just hangin’ around the meat department at Whole Foods in Town & Country.  This particular municipality is . . . a far cry from the city, but very close to my day job, so I’m not unfamiliar with the types of patrons here.  But I do look quite out of place in my leather jacket and jeans, amongst the soccer moms in yoga pants. 

I’ve never been a huge fan of Whole Foods.  Okay truth be told the one near my apartment scares the hell out of me.  Mostly it’s the parking lot.  Rich people in SUVs have no regard for speed limits or pedestrian lives.  And, once you get inside (if you get inside), the prices do nothing to inspire my enthusiasm.  I like the small local markets where I can take my time wandering the aisles, without crowds swarming and rushing all around me.

But I’m not shopping today.

Today, I am observing a butchering competition.  (Props to Neighbor Mike once again for the heads up on this one.)

I notice a woman, maybe in her late thirties, also hanging around awkwardly, so I approach her.

“Are you here for the butchery competition too?”

“Yeah, sort of—the guy I’m with supplied the meat.”

Sweet.  We end up hanging out and talking the rest of the afternoon.

Finally, they bring out the meat:  a pork loin primal, containing the tenderloin (duh), pork chops, baby-back ribs, and fatback.  The three competitors have six minutes to break the primal down into its components and make them as case-ready as possible.

I now learn that this is a Whole Foods employee competition.  (Lame.)  All the contestants are men.  (Super lame.)  I’ve not met one female in the biz yet, aside from Grace and Nicole, but they don’t cut meat so they don’t really count.  But I guess it must be a pretty big deal since a lot of these guys drove in from out of town—some as far as Iowa.  They even roped in a James Beard Award-winning food writer.  The winner will go on to compete in Chicago.  One guy brought his own knives.  It’s typical for chefs and self-employed butchers to carry their own, but union guys don’t have to.

A lot of people have told me to join the Whole Foods butchers’ union, but I’m not sold on it.  It’s a chain store, after all, and I have issues with that.  I prefer to support local—I like my little Mom & Pop joints where I can (mostly) do whatever I want. 

I like watching these guys work; you can tell they’ve gained extensive knowledge from their employment here.  So much is going on, though, that I don’t know where to look.  Tenderloin comes off first, obviously, but then I look over at another guy and he’s way further along than the first one I was watching.  I look back at the first guy and now I don’t know what he’s doing.  If it were a whole animal, I think I could follow.  They all finish well under time.  The guy with his own knives doesn’t win. 

 

 

A one-man clean-up crew wipes down the cutting boards and knives for the next round.  While he’s cleaning knives, a couple walks by and asks him what’s going on.  When he explains about the competition, they respond, “Oh, we thought you were gonna be doin’ some flipping and chopping.”

I’d like to see what kind of cuts you’d get doing that sort of thing.  Nothing but stew meat, probably, with bone shards mixed in.  Butchery isn’t about flash, it’s deliberate, methodical.

Next round of contestants; same cut of meat.

And out comes The Thunder.

His actual name is Mark, but they printed his nickname on his name card.  He reminds me of Foster, only moreso.  Bigger.  Beardier.  Very lumberjacky.  We would be the best of friends, I just know it.  I resist the urge to run up and hug him.  He—unfortunately—gets knocked out in the first round, by Irish Lightning.  An actual Irish butcher.  From Ireland.  Thunder disappears in the back room momentarily and returns wearing a plaid flannel shirt.  Even more lumberjackier!  He smiles as he walks by me and I chicken out of talking to him.  I overhear him talking to one of the judges; now he must make the long drive back to Iowa.  Seems a long trip to make, just for six minutes.

About this time I start to look around and notice that all the meat they sell here comes from local farmers.  That’s pretty cool.  After each round they interview the winners and have them talk about their time at Whole Foods.  Every single person raves about the place, says it’s a great place to work.  I think I might be starting to come around. . . .

So the Irish Lightning goes on to face another emigrant from Romania.  They have six minutes to break down a beef shoulder clod primal, which mostly consists of clod steaks, roast, and stew meat.  Both butchers work quickly, wordlessly, and the Lightning wins, woo!  Go Irish!

 

 

 

 

Next the fishmongers get a turn to show off.  They have five minutes to filet and bone a headless salmon. 

This is a very different process, and it fascinates me.  There are fewer cuts to be made, and they’re made slowly, carefully.  The mongers lean over their catch, lovingly coaxing the knife through the flesh, little by little.  Fishmongers are scrupulous, meticulous, composed.  The cuts have to be clean, otherwise the fish’s flesh frays and looks unappetizing, and there’s really no way to fix it, because by that point the more you cut, the worse it gets.  And with fish, you want to take away as little as possible, because you don’t get that much to begin with. 

Best I can tell, the fishmonger makes one long, vastly important cut down the fish’s belly and almost all the way through.  They get two large filets out of the salmon, then tweeze the pin-bones out.

 

 

There is one female fishmonger, but she’s holding a sign and cheering on the sidelines, not competing. 

Two quiet guys make it to the finals, to repeat the filleting process with a headless Halibut, and we have our winner, who will go down in Whole Foods fame. 

 

 (Before. . . .)
 

(And after!)
 

The woman hosting this shindig noticed that the lady I met by the beer and I both stuck around for the whole competition, and she finagled us a couple gift cards.  I thought that was pretty cool.  Maybe I am coming around. . . .

Afterwards, my new friend took me to meet her employer, who owns a few farms and meat processing plants around the Missouri-Illinois area.  I feel like a dope because I just now noticed his name on the huge banner advertising this competition.  Apparently, he supplies all the grass-fed beef to this Whole Foods.  We discuss my interest, my experience, and he leaves me with his cell number and an open invitation to visit his slaughterhouse down in Farmington (which is very close to Ste. Gen).  So that’s something.

I head out with a smile on my face and think maybe—maybe I’ll look into that butcher’s union after all . . . if I make it out of the parking lot. 

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