Wednesday, November 25, 2015

The One-Thumb Wonder

I’d hoped to have more to write about, but things haven’t exactly gone how I planned them this year.
            When I left Burt’s shop, I left with the intention of starting at another shop soon after.  A shop that processes whole animals, humanely raised, mere minutes from my home.  I gave them my “meat resume” months before they opened.
            And they never called.
            I went in and visited, because it turns out that Logan—the guy who introduced me to my “traveling wife” Ally—grew up a few houses down from the owner of this new butcher shop.  And Manfriend lives four houses down from where he lives now. 
            That was an awkward discovery.
            At 7:30am on a Tuesday, I was saying goodbye to Manfriend in his driveway, when here comes the butcher shop owner jogging down the sidewalk on his morning run.  Manfriend waves hi.  Shop owner nods hello, then looks at me, and his expression runs the gamut from confused, to surprised, to recognition, to acknowledgement, and back to confused shock.
            Obviously, I had to go in and explain that I was in fact not stalking him; I was (and still am) simply dating his neighbor. 
            He still never called me about a job.
            I offered to mop this guy’s floors for free.
            He still didn’t call me.
            He’s always very friendly whenever I visit his shop; they make amazing products and I’m always happy to support local. 
            At Vintage Bike Night I met the man who put together new guy’s charcuterie room; he tipped me off that they’re about to make a jump to higher production, so I went back and dropped off a new resume “just in case” they’re looking for help around the holidays.
            Still no call.
            The shop posted on Facebook that they are looking to hire some new people.  I about threw my phone against the wall.
            Then Manfriend’s sister tagged me in the post:  “This would be the perfect job for you!”
            Sigh.
            I simply responded, “They’ve had my resume for over a year, smiley face.”
            My guess is that they’re wanting daytime people, because every time I see the owner, he asks if I’m still working that insurance job.
            Yes, I’m still working the job that gives me health insurance; you’ll be wanting me to have health insurance if I’m gonna work your bone saw.
            I text Corey to tell him about the charcuterie man.  I don’t hear back from him.

            Every time I drop into Burt’s shop, I get the third degree about this new place.  They are convinced that I work there, and they want to know how the guy makes any profit only butchering one cow a week, “because a whole cow’s only got two tenderloins.”
            Well I’ve grown tired of explaining that a) I don’t work there, b) when I do go in and patronize the shop, the owner doesn’t deign to describe his business plan to me, and c) there are more parts to a cow than just its backstraps.  (Like talking to a brick wall.)
            Every time I see Tommy, he looks worse.  His eyes bulge, his hair’s a mess, his sparse beard is longer and splotchier and greyer.  They have rented a refrigerated truck in order to increase the amount of orders they can take.  And a second smoker, because they’re putting out six cases of wings a week.  Oh, they also received “Best Butcher Shop in St. Louis” from one of the local food mags.  The place that buys pre-cut filet mignon.  Is the best.  “Butcher” shop.  In town. 
            Perhaps I should elaborate:  there are two local food mags in St. Louis.  There used to be only one—run by a couple.  I don’t know if they were married or just dating, but when they broke up, one person went and started the second magazine.  Now, every time the first magazine runs a story, the other magazine runs a very similar story the month after.  The first magazine is the one that ran the story about chefs-turned-butchers and featured my friend Adam (and the owner of the new butcher shop).  So the original magazine named the new shop—the one where I want to work—the best butcher shop in St. Louis; the second magazine is the one that favored Burt’s shop.  First I’d like to point out that this title was earned for 2014—the year when I was working there all the time—so I  like to give myself at least a little credit for that.  Second, I’m guessing that chicken wings played no small role in securing the title for Burt and Grace.  Finally, I lost all respect for magazine number two after seeing that. 

            When summer ended and all my traveling was done (hit up New Orleans for Halloween to round out the year—will never do it again), I got my butt in gear and decided to try other places.  Everybody needs help around the holidays, right?  Added bonus if that help already has experience. 
            So I dropped my little “resume” off at a few other places. 
I got another tip from the charcuterie man about another shop looking to increase their production. 
In addition, a new market opened up a few municipalities over, and when I went to check it out, the lady behind the meat counter told me to go online and apply because they were getting ready to fire someone.  That application took forever!  They asked me all sorts of things, like what was the last meal I cooked (deer chili using a bone-in deer roast like stew meat), what was the last book I read (the entire Game of Thrones series), what five items would I take to a desert island (knife, fire starter, water purifier, tarp, and I forget the last thing), what historical figure would I most like to meet (Marie Laveau). . . .
            Still . . . waiting for that phone call.
            I texted Corey and told him where I was applying.  He didn’t respond.
            No big deal; he’s busy.  He was just traveling . . . somewhere.  World Bacon Championships, I think?  Not sure where that took place.  Oh and then he had the big religious convention down at . . . the convention center.  I think there was something in Murphysboro, IL, recently, too.  He hardly even works in the restaurant anymore; all he does is special events now.

            Then I sprained the thumb of my knife hand playing soccer. 
            It was in the session finals; there was a skirmish in front of the goal, I got hit in the head with the ball, I fell down and landed on my hand, with my thumb bent back in a way it’s not supposed to go.  I just remember looking down and seeing it and thinking, “You . . . idiot.”
            That happened in the first 10 minutes of the game.  Of course I played the rest of the game anyways.
            The other team scored on that play.  We came back to tie it.  And with ten seconds left, we scored on a free kick.
            And now I’m on the DL for four to six weeks.
            I am lost without soccer.  And I can’t cook either.  Where I previously couldn’t understand why I have no time to do anything, now I can’t understand what the hell normal people do with all their time.  My house is very clean.  All my Christmas shopping is done.  I ran the Turkey Trot 5K in 30 degree weather because I had nothing better to do that day.  Now seems like a good time to catch up with people I haven’t seen or talked to in a while.
            I text Corey, “How ya doin?  How ya been?”
            No response.
            It’s not unusual for him to take a day to get back to me, but usually within 48 hours at the most I’ll hear back from him.
            Nothing.
            And then he posts on Facebook:  “If you or anyone you know is looking for some holiday work at a reputable butcher shop, please shoot me a message.  Only qualification:  need to know how to cut meat well, and work with a sense of urgency.  Thanks!”
            I am completely deflated.
            My own mentor.
            Needs a butcher.
            And doesn’t even think of me.
Me, and the knife kit that he gave me, collecting dust in my apartment.
            He can’t even be bothered to respond when I simply ask him how he’s doing.
            Is it because dating last year didn’t work out for us?  I thought he was above that sort of pettiness. 
            I reply to his post, “Hm who do I know like that?”
            And send him a private message:  “So I hear you need a butcher.  And you won’t respond to my texts.”  What gives, dude?
            No meat shops want me.
            I can’t play soccer; I can’t even cook right now.
            My meat mentor won’t even talk to me.
            Even if a shop did call me, I can’t work because my knife hand is busted.
            Did I not get the memo that everyone decided to hate me?  I already know that Tommy hates me because he stopped liking and commenting on all of my Facebook posts.  Does Burt hate me too?  Is he giving me bad recommendations if a shop does call him about my resume?  I’m starting to wonder if that voodoo doll I brought back from New Orleans has cursed me. . . .
           
Spirit Guide Sam and I decided to reboot Sinner Dinners—which is what we called it when I was reviewing restaurants for that little local rag.  I told them he was my photographer and he got to come along too. 
            First reboot is at Reeds American Table. 
            As soon as I get there, I wonder if we should’ve made a reservation.  It’s a small space, and although it isn’t packed, the hostess says that all their tables are booked.  Luckily they have a bar, as well as counter seats in the front window facing the street.  We opt for the counter seats because a) they have back supports, whereas all the empty spots at the bar are merely stools, and b) it could make for some good people watching.
            The talk mainly centers around Sam’s junk, because he recently got a vasectomy, which is the reason for our celebration this evening.  According to Sam, a few weeks of mild discomfort is way better than eighteen years of extreme discomfort. 
            I decide before I even enter the restaurant:  no cheese plates, and no wine for me.  I’m only here for the food! 
            “Do you wanna do a cheese plate?”
            “Of course I want to do a cheese plate.”  God damnit.
            “I’m paying tonight so order whatever you want.”
            Small plates are around $10.  Large plates are around $20.  The cheese plate is $10.  If we weren’t getting cheese, I would get two small plates for myself.  I feel bad asking anyone I’m not sleeping with to spend that much money on me.  I keep this sentiment to myself, however.


            The cheese is wonderful, of course.  One from Baetje Farms—a locally-renowned goat dairy—called “Coeur de la Crème” comes with peach jam and fennel, and resembles cream cheese.  The other is “Pleasant Ridge Reserve” from Uplands Cheese Co., and comes with pear butter and frosted almonds and is crumbly and tart—exactly how I love my cheese.  Sam skips the olive oil-sea salt crackers, so I eat the entire cup.  He prefers the Baetje cheese, so I let him have the majority of that one.
            The Beer Braised Ribs with five-spice, orange glaze, arugula, and beer beurre monte sound amazing.  So does the Pork Belly with shaved brussels, shitakes, leeks, carrots, and maple-date jus.  I do love me some pork belly.  But ooh, they have Mussels with shallot, garlic, smoked paprika, and thai chili . . . dear lord.  My last meal in New Orleans was an enormous pot of mussels, though; I’m not sure that I want to challenge that memory while it’s still so fresh.  Ah, here’s something I’ve never had:  Braised Beef Cheek with oven dried tomatoes, arugula, focaccia, and foie gras cream.  I’ve had pork jowl before, but never beef.  And I’ve always wanted to try foie gras at least once before it’s outlawed.  Done.
            What I really want is braised beef cheek and a bottle of dry red to wash it down with.  Between Paris and Syria, my empathy receptors are on overdrive.  Had a mini-meltdown last night at Manfriend’s, which he deftly remedied by helping me polish off a bottle of Gnarly Head Zin while watching funny television shows.  But wine can wait until I’m done driving places for the night.  Another sentiment that I keep to myself.
            Sam asks our server what the Butcher Steak is tonight; it’s petite filet mignon that comes with carrot, celery root, parsnips, pearl onion, rutabaga, and red wine jus, which he of course orders because red meat is his bread and butter. 
            The couple next to us got the burger, and it is HUGE.  It’s priced the same as the small plates.  Hm . . . maybe I could bring Manfriend here for that. . . .


            The beef cheek is shredded and well-seasoned.  It tastes like a leaner version of the best pot roast you’ve ever had in your life.  It’s mounted on crusty bread, perfect for soaking up the foie gras cream sauce, which is silky rich and buttery.  Sam’s filet is pitch dark on the outside, bright red in the middle; according to him it is the best-cooked steak he’s ever had.


            Sam used to date a pastry chef, so the Pumpkin Tart on the dessert menu has been calling to him since before we even ordered.  He doesn’t even need to look at the other options, that’s what we’re getting for dessert.  It comes with maple ice cream, date-caramel, and pecans.  It’s basically a dressed-up teeny tiny pumpkin pie, but that ice cream is on point. 


            I would definitely give Reeds my business again.  They also have a full coffee bar serving local brew.  There’s a cooler near the front of the restaurant, and I wondered why it didn’t have meat in it, just bottles and cans.  Then I saw the sign that said they sell beer to-go.  Their status just elevated a few more points in my estimation. 
            Sinner Dinner 2.0 will be mutually beneficial:  Sam’s girlfriend is dieting, so he can’t take her to a lot of places, and Manfriend doesn’t see the sense in spending a lot of money on fancy foods that he’s just going to turn into poop.  Don’t misunderstand this to mean that Manfriend never takes me anywhere.  We go out plenty; we just choose reasonably priced venues.  Since I hurt my hand, he’s cooked for me several times, brought me wine and popcorn, taken me out for ice cream, and helped me out around the house.  He’s also impressively adventurous for someone whose routine weeknight dinner is spaghetti and meat sauce with cottage cheese.  Okay now I’m just bragging. 
            I’ve got a long list of places to go for Sinner Dinner.  We decided to do this the second Wednesday of every month, and several other people have expressed interest in coming along.  I may have to start a Facebook group or something, name it Fancy Food Friends or something comparably atrocious. 

            My phone dings.  I have two messages from Corey. 
            I have one long message from Corey:  “Hey!  I’m ok, sorry about not getting back to ya.  Been uber busy.  Yeah, Grace called me to see if I could help out over the holidays.  I told her I would put my feelers out.”
            “I’m starting to think that’s about all I’m good for anymore.  Nobody else wants me,” I tell him.  “Once my hand’s healed, I’ll probably go back, if they even still want me.”
            “What happened to your hand?” he asks.
            “Sprained it playing soccer.  Very minor, just annoying.”  I get nothing from him for a few minutes, so I probe again:  “But the question remains:  HOW ARE YOU??”
            “I’ve been better.  Had a pretty horrible day.”
            Uh oh.  “I’m sorry  =/  what happened?”
            “The constant negativity of my staff has finally worn me down.  Also one of my former mentors died last night.  Everything is just kinda sucky right now.”
            Oh jeez, and here I am being all pathetic and whiney.  “Oh no.  I’m so sorry Cor.”
            “It’s all good.  Just need a little decompression.”
            “And whiskey” I suggest.
            “Having a wee nip as we speak.”
            Not surprising.  “Glad to hear it  =)”
            “What have you been up to?”
            I give him the rundown of my very clean house and 5K running, but turn my tone more positive at the end by telling him about the next big trip I’m planning (no spoilers). 
            His next trip is Meatstock in Australia.  Dear god, look it up.  I am beyond jealous. 
            He’s not competing; he’s going for research and development.  I was under the impression that the restaurant paid for these sorts of things, but he tells me that he pays his own way.  I feel like he should be able to write that stuff off, but he admits that he considers it vacation rather than work.  I can totally see that.
            It feels good to catch up.  Maybe we can get together for a drink after the holidays, once things slow down. 


            And just for fun, here’s some pics of the deer chili I made:  








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