Blood is in the Air

“You’re a butcher?  That’s so hot.”

Butchering has come back into fashion.  It’s now “trendy.”  Butchers are “in vogue” and “sexy.”

            Oh yeah.  Let me tell you.  The meat market is a very titillating place to be.  I mean, there’s really nothing about raw meat that isn’t sexual.  And it’s time to make it known to the whole wide world.  Time to air out the truth of what it’s really like being a meat cutter, like airing out the dirty laundry—and I don’t mean the lacy Victoria’s Secret kind of laundry; I’m talking about the oversized white cotton granny panties with the busted elastic band kind of laundry.  So here’s a brief rundown of a few “hot” meat-girl facts that have surfaced over the last few years since I started this gig: 

1)         I scare people.

            Yes.  I do.

1a)       Not just boys; I scare girls, too.  I’ve lost some really close male friends because I made their girlfriends “nervous” (true story).  Despite years of friendship, whoever gives up the sex wins out in the end.  So not only can I not make girl friends; I’m not allowed to have guy friends. 

1b)       I scare boys.

            Because butcher.

            Other things, too.

            But mostly because . . . butcher.

            Remember this guy?  The rock climber who was “creeped the fuck out” by pictures of cow parts?  Shortly after that exchange, the upscale southern restaurant/bar where he works began getting whole pigs for their kitchen. 

            When he told me that, I responded, “Oh, are you gonna call in sick since it creeps you the fuck out?”

            And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly why I’m single. 

1a + 1b = Lonely.  (So hot.  I’m already getting the vapors.) 

2)         Everyone thinks I’m gay. 

Which would be great, if I were in fact gay—or even bi.  This is nothing new for me, actually.  I played softball for many years.  I ride a motorcycle.  I wear plaid.  (Cute hipster girls wear plaid and get called cute hipster girls; I wear plaid and get called a dyke.)  I’m a jock.  And—oh yeah—I’m trained in how to use a knife.  Clearly, I put the “butch” in “butcher.”

I went to see a Neil Diamond impersonator one night, and was chatting with a friend, who happens to be a lesbian.  On this particular night I didn’t feel like dressing up, so I simply wore jeans and a t-shirt. 

My friend is trying to explain to me that there is a simple way to decipher douche bags from a safe distance.

“It’s all about the shoes.  Like if a guy wears . . . Nikes on a first date?  Douche bag.”

“What’s wrong with Nikes?” I ask.  (Please refer to the above-mentioned reference to my jock-ness.) 

She sighs; this is clearly going over my head.  “Okay . . . what kind of shoes are you wearing right now?”

“Motorcycle boots.”

She opens her mouth, closes it; open it again and says, “Are you sure you’re not gay?”

3)         Everyone else seems far more preoccupied with my dating life than I am. 

            This is not exclusive to the meat shop; my friends fixate on it, too.  If I bring it up in conversation, I’m not complaining, I’m just stating a fact.  (A profoundly hilarious fact.)  But people think that means they need to take me on as a project—a puzzle or problem to be solved.  Well guess what?  I’m not your problem.

           

Someone bought the two buildings on the right side of us, where I’ve been parking since my original spot at the building left of us became unavailable.  (It’s been fixed up, but it hasn’t become anything yet, so it’s still not open.)  A couple of guys rehabbing said two buildings come in looking for something ready-to-eat, so I bring them some ribs, hot off the smoker.  After they pay and leave, Nicole says—in reference to the younger of the two men—“That’s the kind of guy we want for you:  someone who can . . . you know . . . take care of business.”

            “That’s the thing about men, Nicole,” I say, “just because they can take care of their professional lives . . . doesn’t mean they can take care of their personal lives.”  (In all fairness, this statement can apply to all people, not just men.)

           

4)         Everyone thinks I’m just eye candy.

            Oh the irony.  Who’s the real piece of meat here?

            I guess this one’s not really new to me, either.  People judge by appearances.  Period.

            I actually thought guys were bullying me in high school, till I realized (about six months ago) that was how they dealt with the insecurity resultant from their unreciprocated attraction to me.  It really doesn’t make any sense.  What a horrible way to treat someone you want to date. 

Super Bowl Sunday, a guy comes in just before we’re about to close and asks, “Do you have anything fresh cut?  Those ribeyes look good.”

            “Of course they look good; I cut them.”  I add, “The most recent cut is the T-bones, though; Tommy did those just before he left.”

            “Oh you cut the ribeyes?  Give me three good ones—two seasoned.”

            After he’s gone Nicole comments, “Girl, he was checkin’ you out hard core!”

            “Only because I was sassy at him.”  Guy seemed pretty douchey if you ask me.

            “What is it with men?  They just love bitches, don’t they?”

            Honestly, I couldn’t tell you the first thing about what men love.  Obviously, it’s a topic that has eluded me for many years. 

            You guys starting to feel the love yet?  ‘Cause I’m just getting warmed up.

            Speaking of temperatures rising, butchers are the hot “new” thing in town.  A local food mag did a piece on The New American Butcher, about four chefs-turned-butchers.  Cory read that and said, “What about . . . you know, just butchers?”

            One of the featured chefs is Adam, whom you may remember as the guy who got me started on trotters and tenderloins on Pig Day with Foster at the Irish pub. 

I’m only a little jealous. 

Okay I’m a lot jealous, but he and the other chefs definitely deserve the recognition. 

People love their meat; more and more, they desire meat that was loved while it was alive.  They crave more from their meatery, but Grace and Burt don’t seem to want to listen. 

            Customers come in asking for grass-fed beef, free-range chickens, lamb, bison, and more exotic cuts of beef.  The response is always the same:  “We don’t carry it because there’s not enough demand for it.  Try Whole Foods.”

            How can you sit there and say there’s no demand to someone who is demanding it?

After working the holidays at Burt’s shop, my love for the world of meat has begun to wane.  Nine hours a day on my feet trimming tenderloin isn’t butcher work, it’s factory assembly line work.  I’ve been getting paid, which is nice, but it’s also distracted me from the reason I started this journey in the first place.  I’m not making a difference, I’m not more connected to “the source”; I’m not working with people who are passionate about what they’re doing, I’m working with people who are just trying to make a buck. 

This isn’t what I want to do. 

            My love affair with meat needs a reboot.

            And so here I am.

            I don’t work here.

            Then why am I wearing this bloody apron, you ask?

            I’m just cutting up corpses in the basement.

            “Glamorous life, ain’t it?” Adam smirks.

            “Well it landed you in the news.  Now you have a reputation to uphold.  This is just like that time Cory went on TV and became a hot-shot celebrity,” I laugh.

Adam responds, “I don’t wanna be a celebrity; I just wanna be able to pay my fuckin’ bills.”

The ultimate irony of the restaurant industry is that most of the people working behind the scenes to plate your $46 poached sea bass over truffled quinoa with a lemon horseradish aioli, can’t afford to walk in the front door and treat their families to a meal at their place of employ. 

He tells me what it was like being interviewed. 

“The guy kept asking about this hip new thing, and we were all like, ‘It’s not new, dude.  It’s been around . . . literally forever.’  I never did figure out why the hell we had to do the photo shoot at nine am.  Why it couldn’t wait till eleven, I’ll never know.  I showed up late, hung over as shit.”

And yet, there were at least ten women who commented on Facebook about how hot he looks in the photo they chose. 

When I congratulated Adam about the article, he suggested I join him for a pig day at the restaurant where he butchers two days a week.  (He left the pub a while back; he now cooks full-time at another restaurant.)  I certainly can’t turn down an offer like that. 

The smell of bleach hangs heavy in the air, like a thick wool blanket on a dark windy night.  It’s a good thing.  That’s what you want to smell around where meat is processed.

We have four massive pig halves (about 80 pounds apiece) to break down today, and . . . we wind up with three tails.  These were not the same two pigs.  Weird. 

Adam tells me about a guy in Ohio who is trying to breed the most delicious pig of all time.  And when it’s time for his piggies to go to slaughter, he gets them drunk on Everclear until they pass out, then slits their throats while they’re unconscious.  Quiet; peaceful; no trauma.  He probably thought to himself, “How would I want to die?” and decided that if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for his livestock. 

“I read your blog,” he says.

            Uh oh. 

“Well you posted that thing on Facebook about how nobody ever reads it, so I did—cover to cover.”

Oh no, that was a joke.  You read this?  Don’t do that.  Don’t read this.  It’s awful.

“I think it’s funny, the recurring theme of everybody being like, ‘Hey I got a great guy to set you up with!’ and you’re just like, ‘Nah, I’m good.’”

Adam does something different from the other butchers I’ve worked with:  he strings his hand saw backwards, so that you cut on the pull rather than the push.  Makes much more sense, right?  And it’s a lot easier for me to work with. 

This restaurant makes pork rinds out of the pigs’ skin.  So first we remove the tenderloins, trotters, hocks, and shanks.  By now this is familiar to everyone, right class?  It makes me miss deer season because I can’t twist and snap the legs off these immense swine.  Next we break it into belly, loin, shoulder, and butt.  Then we skin those four individual components.  Different from how I’ve done it before, with the whole pig dangling upside down by one hind foot.  Without the weight of the hide hanging down around the carcass, I find this method a bit more difficult.  Such is work in a restaurant versus a slaughterhouse. 

Next we break everything down even further, and Adam lets me use the bone saw!  I make pork chops.  They’re not pretty.  But they’re mine.

As we’re cutting, I talk about the shop, and what it’s like working there.  I tell Adam everything.  Everything.  Even the stuff that I purposely keep off this site, because . . . reasons. 

He stops what he’s doing, straightens up, and looks me dead in the eye.  “You gotta get outta there.”

Sigh . . . I know. 

But this?  This is better than therapy.  I love this shit.  Five hours underground with four halves of dead bodies and I feel like someone plunged a syringe full of steroids into my heart.  I can feel my blood pumping again; life floods my veins; electricity shoots from my fingertips and my eyes are like fire.  That’s what love is supposed to feel like.

           

            

            Cory got me a knife kit.  How fucking awesome is that??

            I posted my thanks to him on Facebook, and the first comment was, “This is the butcher’s equivalent of an engagement ring, right?  Do we throw you a shower?” 

            Fourth comment down says, “No one will ever marry you now” followed by three knife emoticons and three sad-face emoticons. 

            Who are they kidding? I was never gonna be able to trick anyone into marrying me.

            Eleventh comment down played leapfrog over that embarrassment and reads, “You’re getting married?  The meal at that reception is going to be awesome.”

            Nice compliment, but . . . there are several steps in between “single” and “engaged” that I am currently missing.  Like . . . all of them.

            Way to turn a nice gift into a depressing reminder of my forever alone-ness, friends.

Oh my . . . things are starting to get pretty steamy in here.  Should we slow things down a bit?  Wouldn’t want to reach the climax too soon. . . .

V-Day.

Also Mardi Gras, but this year Luke Johnson isn’t here to remind me of that, thank god.  He got a real grown-up job somewhere in Indiana.  Congratulations, to him.

I already know what I’ll be doing all day, so I start pulling tenderloins from the cooler and trimming them up.  Tommy throws a stack of orders at me. 

“Here ya go sorry.”  He takes the pork chop tray out of the case and sets it on his side of the board, then disappears.

I bang the orders out quickly but don’t take a break.  I put away the forgotten tray of pork, then just keep on cutting. 

Nicole shows up late, with donuts, brownies, and the magazine with Adam’s picture in it.

Great.

Burt picks it up, immediately comments, “Oh that’s just what people wanna see:  a guy covered in tattoos holding a giant knife.”

That would be my friend Adam he is referring to.

I think it is getting hot in here, because I can feel my blood beginning to boil. . . .

“Everyone’s so nuts about local meat.”  He whines in a sing-song voice:  “It’s gotta be local.  Our meat’s local.  Technically.  The beef comes from central Missouri; pork’s from Illinois . . . chicken, well . . . the chicken comes from North Carolina.”

The proprietor of a meat shop, mocking people who care enough about their meat to ask where it comes from.  I grit my teeth and say nothing, silently seething over this upper-class chow I’m prettying up.  Come on, people; tenderloin is the boneless skinless chicken breast of a cow.  Whenever people order it, all I hear is, “My life is bland and I only have sex in the missionary position.”  And if they order it without bacon, it’s:  “I’m stuck in a loveless marriage and haven’t been laid in fifteen years.” 

Be bold, people!  Put some flavor into your lives!  Eat pickled cow tongue for fuck’s sake!  When’s the last time you used the word “orgasmic” to describe something you ate?  If it wasn’t within the last month, you’re doing it wrong.  Seriously, if a guy ever brought home filet mignon to make for dinner on the most fauxmantic day of the year, it would be grounds for divorce—even if we weren’t married.  

I would divorce my boyfriend. 

That’s how serious this is.

Where’s the originality?  Where’s the passion behind a lean (read:  flavorless) hunk of beef?  How am I supposed to fall in love with that?  I need something creative . . . exotic . . . mysterious.  I need fat!  Juicy, forbidden, fat.  Something that awakens a lustful beast inside of you and makes you feel naughty for enjoying it.  And spice!  I want a thousand different flavors dancing a tango down my tongue in stiletto heels, igniting my taste buds.  And I want to sense it; not just where it enters me, but throughout my whole body:  penetrating every corner of my soul, not with a sigh, but with a scream!

When the last customer has gone home, and the sign has been turned off and the door is locked, I pull Burt aside.

“Burt . . . this is it for me.  This isn’t what I want to be doing anymore.  I’m really sorry.”

And he . . . he starts crying . . . like I’m breaking his heart.

“Well, I’m . . . sad to see you go.  You’re always welcome here, any time you wanna come in and make a few bucks.”

“I’ll come back and visit, I promise.”

“You know we love you.” 

I say thank you, and hug him goodbye.

I am The Butcher’s Apprentice.

And I quit.