Meat People Meet Meat People

I often wonder if other people—“normal people”—have trouble with life the way I do. 

            As I sit at my kitchen table, picking fresh thyme leaves off their stems, I think . . . no.  No, normal people do not encounter the same issues I do.  Because they don’t need to grocery shop for two days before they can cook a meal on the third.  They shop at Walmart, which already has all the things they need.  The meals they make don’t take two to three hours to cook because they don’t make everything from scratch, including their laundry detergent.  They probably have hungry families waiting for them at home, wanting their meals right now.  So whatever premade stuff in a box or a bag goes into the microwave and voila, dinner is served.

When I do go to stores, I lose myself wandering around looking at all the neat things they’ve got these days:  things to make peoples’ lives easier, things that are absolutely superfluous to life, and so many things in the grocery store that simply aren’t food.  And ooh, frozen bibimbop at Target—who’d have thought? 

No . . . no I don’t imagine that normal people have these sorts of concerns.  

*                      *                      *

Saturday, August 2, 8:50am 

Sent:  “Last night I dreamed that we were watching a movie about Santa Claus with a bunch of people, and you were Santa in the movie.  But you were pissed that someone filmed you while you were dressed like Santa.  Also, your ginger beard stuck out through your Santa Beard.  And the house where we were watching the movie was haunted or something, it was a weird dream.”

Received:  “Excellent!  What are u doin?  Feel like grabbing coffee?  Or are you at the butcher shop today?”

Sent:  “Just woke up actually; coffee would be nice.  Are you off work today?”

Received:  “Yep!  I’m gonna get a quick shower then call u.  Cool?  Think about where u wanna go.”

There is only one answer to that question:  Sump. 

 

The best coffee, period.

We exit to find a food truck parked on the curb—Cuban street food for brunch!  I’m a bit jittery after all that caffeine so I order some food.  Just then a gate opens to reveal the coffee shop’s backyard, complete with chairs and benches, fire pit, and a DJ just getting started. 

A guy and girl approach Cory, shake his hand.  He introduces me.  “We’re butchers.”

“Cory’s a butcher,” I laugh.  “He overestimates me.”

 

We sit down by the empty fire pit, and I tuck in to my Coffee Adobo Chicken.  Split that egg open so it runs all over everything.

“So why aren’t you at the shop today?” Cory asks.

“I dunno, I have so few days off now that when I finally get one . . . I want it to be free, ya know?”

“I hear ya.  I had too much on my plate and had to quit something.  That ‘something’ was Burt’s shop.  There’s no upward mobility there.”

“Plus all the drama and the bullshit. . . .”  Can’t keep track of who’s fired/quit from one week to the next . . . have to put up with sexual harassment from Miles, and flat-out ignorance from Luke Johnson. . . .

“It’s toxic.  It was toxic to me, and it’s toxic for you.”

I never thought about it like that, but he’s right. 

Cory has nothing at all to do today, I only had one thing on my agenda for today:  “I was gonna hit up the Bavarian sausage house in town and see if they’d teach me anything.”

“I don’t think they take on apprentices.”

I grin, “I’m pretty sure Burt didn’t, either, till I walked through that door.”

“Fair enough.”

            A light bulb goes off, and I have a stroke of genius.  “Do you want to come with me?  Do you want to have an adventure today??”

            He laughs, “Sure, I have nothing else going on.” 

We hop in our respective cars and caravan to the sausage house.

“I applied here a few years ago for a full-time butchering position,” Cory states.  “I never called them back.”

“I think they should be over it by now.  But you can wait here if you’d rather not go in.”

“No it’s fine, I’ll go.”

They offer us a beer as soon as we walk through the door.  There are customers milling around, so I hang back and take everything in.  The shop is small and stark . . . bland.  I try to see into the back room where the meat cuttery takes place, but it’s blocked by swinging doors.  The workers stare at us expectantly.

“Look at how stocked their case is,” Cory nods at the fresh meat cooler, which is damn near empty.

“Our filets are better than theirs,” I whisper. 

I decide that I’m not really feeling the vibe from this place.  But I do think I need to try some of their flank steak jerky, so I ask for a quarter pound. 

Now Cory steps up to the counter.

And puts these folks to work!

We sample probably half a dozen of their house-made sausages, and he ends up buying a few different kinds, including Krakow, and tongue-in-blood.  The Krakow has notes of garlic and coriander, giving it very distinctive flavor.  Of course the tongue-in-blood is amazing—earthy and metallic.

 

Next we meander to a Bosnian market on south Gravois that I’ve always wanted to go inside.  They sell leg of lamb year-round, but we find out that they don’t butcher in-house.  We buy veal bologna from them.

“Are we going to have a picnic?” I ask Cory.  All we bought was meat that doesn’t need to be cooked.

“Yeah, where should we go?”

We’re pretty near Tower Grove Park right now, but I have a better idea:  “You know where we can go?  Heavy Riff Brewery in Dogtown:  they don’t serve food, so they let you bring your own in!”

“That’s perfect, because I need to look at apartments around there today.”

We’re going to be neighbors!

We have quite the feast, and offer some to the bartender, since (unsurprisingly) he happens to be a friend of Cory’s.  He politely declines, explaining that he is “not that adventurous.”  Cory orders the house APA; my Saison is light and refreshing. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent cruising around my neighborhood, writing addresses and phone numbers down.

When we part ways, I say decisively, “This was a really good meat adventure!”

“A meat-venture!” he counters.

I shake my head.  “Not everything has to be one word, Cory.” 

*                      *                      * 

I finish chopping the thyme, and a quarter cup of parsley.  Head over to the stove and peek into my heavy-bottomed Dutch oven. 

The olive oil has warmed, so I add two tablespoons of brown sugar and stir it around for a couple minutes. 

Next come the chicken thighs, and a bit of fresh grated ginger.  The recipe calls for thighs and breasts, but fuck a bunch of white meat.  Dark meat is where it’s at. 

So I spread the thighs evenly around the pot, making sure to leave a gap in between each.  Those thighs won’t brown properly if they’re touching.  Gently poke the thighs once in a while with a wooden spoon to make sure they’re not sticking to the pan. 

Dump in a small can of whole peeled canned tomatoes and break them up with a spoon. 

Now throw in the thyme, half the parsley, a metric fuck ton of carrots, plus one and a half cups of water.  The recipe calls for potatoes as well, but I’m off starch at the moment so I double up on the carrots instead. 

That’s it.  Seriously.  Leave it simmer for 40-45 minutes and you’re done.  And the only thing flavoring this stew besides salt and pepper is ginger, brown sugar, and herbs.  For such a simple dish, the ingredients fuse to create a surprisingly complex flavor that somehow has a tiny hint of spice to it.  The tender thigh meat melts onto your tongue in exquisite ecstasy.  Sometimes it’s worth it to put in that little extra effort and create something, rather than just warming it up in the microwave.

Bon appétit. 

 Recipe adapted from Giada De Laurentiis’ Trinidadian Chicken Stew