Tommy says this every day leading up
to Thanksgiving. Said it last year,
too. And the year before that. Tommy never tires of his jokes.
Tommy and I have gotten very
comfortable working adjacent one another.
If he doesn’t see me as his equal just yet, at least he doesn’t consider
me a subordinate. More like a slightly
demoted peer.
“Why don’t you stand on that mat,
save your ankles, that’s why it’s there.”
I always forget about the rubber-coated
memory-foam mat on my side of the board; probably because there’s no hope left
for my feet or ankles—they hurt constantly, even in orthopedic shoes with
custom-fit supports. I wonder if, on top
of the bursitis, I also have plantar fasciitis in my heel.
Miles
hears Tommy’s concern about my extremities and asks, “Why you bein’ so nice to
her?”
Tommy balks, “What’re you talking
about? I’m always nice.”
“No you not,” Miles responds. “Normally you a asshole.”
Burt comes in mid-morning, looking
like hell.
“I’ve been up since four a.m.,” he
sighs.
“Why?” I ask.
“I had to heat up the chili for the
tailgate.”
“What tailgate?” I don’t keep up with much sportsball.
“For the Blues game—Chase and the
guys are going up there.” Chase is his
youngest son.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the
issue. Your son . . . your son . . . can’t cook chili?”
Chili is like the easiest thing in the world to make.
“I cooked the chili yesterday; it
just had to be warmed up this morning for them to take to the tailgate.”
Then I still don’t understand. “Your son doesn’t know how to heat up
already-cooked chili?” That’s actually
worse. Way worse.
“They went out last night; there
were about fifteen people sleeping in my basement that I’d never seen
before. And a note on the counter that
said, ‘Please heat up chili; Love Chase.’”
There are so many things wrong with
that statement I don’t even know where to begin. I was raised different, that’s all I’ll say.
All through our Thanksgiving prep I
worked on a sprained ankle. It was
minor, so it healed fast. Gotta sprain
that shit at least once a year now. The weird
thing was that the brace hurt it, so I healed it with absolutely no support.
Thanksgiving weekend I had family in
town so I didn’t work. Weekend after
that I was sick in bed for two days.
Truth be told, whatever I had is still hanging on: I wake up with a sore throat, cough
occasionally, and lose my voice almost every day, but I’m functioning just
fine—haven’t missed a workout or an alcoholic beverage (since getting out of
bed). Though I stopped going out Friday
nights—hungover and tired just don’t go well with butchering.
And neither does distraction go well
with knife wielding.
The crazy lady from the doll shop
next door has paid us a visit once again.
She introduces herself to me (for about the eighth time), and then just
hovers while I’m trimming tenderloin, intermittently blurting out random shit,
like a child that just says whatever mindless drivel pops into its head without
even thinking. Every time she speaks I
have to stop what I’m doing.
“It’s a shame you can’t sell that,
too.”
“Mm-hm.” She means the steak trimmings. That I toss into a bowl, and dump into the
grinder, to be made into ground steak, to be sold for $5.99 a pound. Where the fuck is Burt?
She sighs, “Someday my shop will be
this busy.”
In the meantime, ya think you could
let me do my job . . . using this knife . . . to cut up people’s food?? Sorry that people need this to live, whereas
your doll shop could disappear into a dark chasm and no one would notice.
There’s a guy who comes in once in a
while dressed in a chef’s coat and checkered pants. Today he’s buying two pork bellies. Tommy pulls the box out and asks the chef to
step behind the counter and choose which two he would like. Then, like usual, Tommy wanders off, leaving
the chef lingering awkwardly at the cutting board.
I take off my glove and extend a
handshake to him; start asking questions about where he works. I have a fascination with chefs that I can’t
really explain.
He works at a place called Avenue in
Clayton, owned by the same folks who brought you Pomme Café and Wine Bar. I remember Pomme had great mussels; David and
I went there a few times because a friend of his worked there.
“What’re you doing with these
bellies?” I inquire.
“I’m gonna take them home and make
bacon—for Christmas presents.”
Nice!
After the chef is gone, Tommy says,
“That’s my buddy Chester, you want his number?”
“Excuse me?”
“I dunno, maybe you’re attracted to
him and you want his number.”
Because I asked him a couple of food
questions? “I’m good, Tommy.”
Later that afternoon, I overhear
Burt in the back room telling his four a.m. chili story to Miles.
I shake my head and scoff in
disbelief. “Can you fuckin’ believe
that?”
“What?” Tommy asks.
“Burt is still bitching about that goddamn chili.”
“Oh.” He is completely unfazed.
I sigh, knowing that Tommy is the
only person here that I can say this to:
“If you are going to enable your children to be lazy, entitled pieces of
shit, you don’t get to complain about it.”
“Well they’re what I like to call
‘silver spoons,’ you know what that means?”
“Yeah I know what it means,” I
grumble.
“They were born that way; they’re
never gonna change.”
End of the night I wipe down the
board, and wash all the knives.
Burt notices and comments, “I like
how you clean up after yourself. Unlike
some other people.” He then offers to wash the other half of the
board.
* * *
The
night before the day before Thanksgiving, Tommy sends me a private message on
Facebook.
“Thanks for helping last night. I know Grace appreciated it. The case looked great when I got there. I’m going to get you as many hours as you
want starting probably in a week.
Nights, Saturday’s, Sunday’s. But
I WILL NOT let you burn out & get no rest.
It’s not worth it.”
“Awesome, thanks Tommy!”
“I mentioned you in a post an hour
ago. I better see a god dam ‘like’ from
you or it was all wasted effort.”
I go to his page and find the
aforementioned post and ‘like’ it.
“Lol Happy?”
His response is to send me a picture
of him standing in his apartment holding a giant gun; his eyes have been
digitally enlarged, and snow has been Photoshopped into the picture.
* * *
The night before the day before
Christmas Eve I come in to find a mountain of meat on the cutting board, and
Tommy in a state of absolute delirium.
“Thank god you’re here,” Nicole says while pulling me into a tight
embrace.
She got me a fleece vest from her
day job; it’s huge on me, but it keeps my core warm while leaving my arms free
to work. Everyone at the shop has one;
now I’m really part of the team.
I say nothing, just pull on gloves
and begin sorting through the pile of meat on the board.
Tommy walks by and says something
random, goes back to his office for a cigarette.
About
45 seconds later he marches past me again, fumbles around in the cooler singing
a made-up song to himself, then returns to his office.
Five
minutes later he’s back at the board, desiccating a tenderloin with only a few
strokes of his knife, muttering incoherently.
I manage to catch the words, “. . . maybe I’ll get myself a hooker . .
.” and purse my lips so I don’t burst out laughing.
I get started on filet orders. That’s all I do now. That’s all I did for nine hours Saturday;
that’s all I did for eight hours Sunday.
Yesterday I was at my day job for eight-and-a-half hours, got my workout
in, came straight here, and worked until I thought I was going to
collapse. My legs and feet are killing
me. And it’s freezing in here.
The
more I do this, the more I appreciate that chair I get to sit in all day at my
desk job. I’m really starting to think
that I truly cannot “train” my body to stand all day. My feet haven’t gotten used to this; they
only hurt worse and worse.
No
one turns off the “Open” sign, or locks the door, even though it’s after 6pm. And even though every single piece of meat in
this store is spoken for by people who had the presence of mind to call ahead and
order (Christmas is on the same day every year folks, get your shit together),
they are still letting people walk in off the street and walk out with our
meat.
So
I have a tray of filets ready for orders, but Nicole is grabbing them and
giving them away to people—since the case is empty, due to the aforementioned
circumstances. So now we might not have enough left in the cooler to fill these
orders.
When
Luke Johnson or I answer the phone, we apologetically refer customers to
another shop. If Burt or Grace answer
the phone, they say, “Well, we’re sold out . . . but I can get you one. . . .” We’ve been sold out since last Tuesday.
It’s
infuriating; there is no way to get ahead with this type of business
model. You’re screwing over the people
whose orders have been on the board for weeks, just to make twelve bucks from a
guy who walks in after close two days before Christmas and is surprised—that’s
the kicker, everyone is surprised—that
we don’t have a case full of meat waiting for him to pick from?? There is only so much space in this tiny
little building where we can keep meat!
Cory’s
barbecue joint also does smoked tenderloin for Christmas—one dollar per pound
more expensive than ours. And they
stopped taking Christmas orders December 20, no excuses. Period.
That’s a good way to ensure that your stock doesn’t overwhelm your
capacity, and that your employees can maintain pace and don’t become
overworked. Particularly if you don’t
hire enough extra help for the season.
We’ve
got three new people helping us right now:
two young college guys—one tall, one short—and an experienced meat
cutter named Alabama. ‘Bama is a big
dude with a thick southern accent. Tommy
kept calling him Arkansas until Nicole started doing it; now he yells at her
for calling him the wrong name.
I
meet ‘Bama while heading to use the restroom in back. I shake his hand and his first words to me are,
“I sure hope you ain’t like Nicole!”
I
reply, “Oh, nobody’s like Nicole!”
I
can hear him and Miles talking about me while I’m in the bathroom.
‘Bama: “Well, at least she’s prettier than Nicole.”
Miles: “Heheh; no doubt.”
You
guys do realize that this door is made of plywood,
right, and not soundproof insulation? I
don’t say anything to either of them when I emerge.
Today
was the busiest day of the year; it’s the day when most people pick up their
Christmas orders (and some people still try to just walk in and buy
something). It was crazy as hell, and
apparently not everyone has caught the Christmas Spirit.
Grace regales me, “Some lady came in
and picked up her order for two pounds of smoked tenderloin, but she made me
re-do it. She said she wanted it wrapped
in one-pound packages, but cryovaced together.
I said, ‘I don’t understand the problem, what’s the difference?’” You have to break the cryovac seal to get to
both of them; once it’s open . . . both pounds are affected anyways.
I shake my head, “Sounds like she
needs a hobby other than harassing people in the food industry.”
“I think that is her hobby.”
I take a breath, uncertain of
whether or not I should say this to my sweet old lady boss. “Well then it sounds like she needs to get
laid.”
“She looked like it, too!” Grace laughs.
I laugh so hard my stomach
hurts.
Luke
Johnson has his own anecdote from today:
a guy came in to pick up his order and had to wait a few minutes while
they located all its components.
The customer leaned over the counter
and said to Luke Johnson, “Hey, you should gimme some free wings for having to
wait, ‘cause I placed my order like a month ago.”
Dude, if you want month-old meat I’m
sure there’s some ground into the mat that Tommy stands on every day; I will be
happy to scoop some into a bag for you.
Now that’s customer service.
Rather than argue, Luke Johnson put
four wings in a small tin for him to take home.
Friday before Christmas, I got a
Facebook message from an acquaintance—an older guy who went on a motorcycle
ride with us one time over the summer.
Nice dude; we got along well, but I haven’t seen him since.
“Need a prime rib or rib eye roast
for xmas, do you have a good selection still for next week? If so where is your shop located?”
Prime rib and rib eye roasts are one
and the same. I tell him I will check
for him, and ask how many people he’s feeding.
He says ten.
When I ask Grace about it, she says,
“We’re all sold out but if you need one I can get you one.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for a
friend.”
“Well if it’s for you of course I
can get you one.”
It’s not—ah fuck it.
It’s not—ah fuck it.
So I tell this “friend” that I can
get him one and ask him when he would like to pick it up.
“Tuesday pick up would be perfect, Lucy
will be the one that will come get it.”
I like how he just assumes I know
who Lucy is.
“Same last name as you?”
“Nope its Larson, sorry I missed
that part.”
The last thing I need is a phone
number, then I place the order in the Tuesday pile. He asks what we charge.
“$12.99/lb. For 10 people we do 5-ribs; will be
12-14lbs.”
As soon as I leave work I see that
he has sent me another message requesting Monday pickup instead.
Jeez. Needy people.
“I’ll have to change it tomorrow when I get in.”
He thanks me.
So, Sunday morning I yell at Grace
twice about changing the pick-up date for this Lucy Larson order from Tuesday
to Monday. Sunday night after we close,
Tommy and I start putting together Monday’s orders, and I see that he has Lucy
Larson’s order on the board in front of him.
Cool, so that’s taken care of and I
don’t have to worry about it anymore.
(This is actually a three-rib roast I did around
Thanksgiving; just posting it for reference.
Also, I didn’t put any pics in my last post, how weird was that??)
Next day at work, Burt calls my cell
while I’m talking to my mom. Burt never
calls me. I don’t answer, but he leaves
me a voicemail saying that Lucy Larson is there to pick up her order, but they
can’t find it and she doesn’t know what it is.
I call him back; he doesn’t answer; I leave him a voicemail. I call the shop; no one answers. I text him the same info that I told him in
my voicemail.
That night I walk in the back door,
and the first thing Burt says to me is, “We messed up your friend’s order.”
“What do you mean? I saw Tommy had it right in front of him last
night.”
“You’ll have to ask Grace what
happened. We had to re-do the whole
thing, we got her taken care of, but she was very irate by the time she left
here.”
I talk to Grace and Tommy
together.
Tommy says, “Sorry we messed up your
friend’s order.”
“You didn’t mess it up. You did it, I know you did it.”
Grace explains, “She didn’t know
what name it was under and she didn’t know what it was.”
I’m confused. “She didn’t know her own name?”
“She just kept saying your name, going on about how good of
friends you are.”
“I never met the bitch before in my
life. And she didn’t know what meat she
requested or how many people she’s feeding?”
“She said seven adults and three
kids, so we gave her a four-rib.”
People! Kids . . . are not people.
I take a long, deep exhale. “I was told ten people; five ribs. Hang on, let’s back up for a second
here. First of all, that bitch is not
my friend. An acquaintance—not even a good
acquaintance—asked me for this meat, then said he was sending someone else to
pick it up. Tommy did her order; I know he did it, because he had it
sitting right in front of him last night!”
Tommy finally speaks up, “Hold on,
why are you yelling? Who are you mad
at? You mad at your friend or you mad at
us?”
“Stop calling that bitch my
friend. I’m yelling because Grace is
deaf. I’m mad at the bitch who didn’t
know her own fucking name, I’m mad that you
had to re-do work that you already did,
and I’m mad at this acquaintance that
I went out of my way to do a favor
for.” I know, preposition at the end of
a sentence; I was pissed off, okay??
“And stop apologizing; you didn’t
mess up her order.” Enough of this
bullshit; I need to get to work.
“I’m gonna start pulling all the
orders that weren’t picked up today!” Nicole announces. If people don’t pick up their orders, we rip
the ticket off, find another ticket for the same thing, slap the new person’s
name on it, and we’re good to go. (We
only do this once—one day doesn’t make a big difference.) “Does anybody know . . . Lucy Larson? Do we need to call her?”
Are you fucking kidding me. . . .
“That’s the bitch that didn’t know her own name; toss that shit.”
“Oh that was your friend whose order
we messed up?” Nicole asks. “It was
sitting right here on top!”
“She’s not my—”
“Nicole just pull the ticket and
find another five-rib roast for tomorrow,” Tommy stops me from spontaneously
combusting.
Next year I think we’ll be all sold
out of rib roasts if anyone asks me.
The same day that Mr. Lucy Larson
first messaged me about rib roasts, I got another Facebook message from a guy I
used to work with at Hot Topic. (You
read that right; I was an Assistant Manager . . . at Hot Topic.)
“I am finding myself shopping for late
post-Christmas presents for my friends who love to grill and barbeque. I am
assuming your shop has lots of options most people would enjoy. My question is do you have any kind of
bundles or specials with several items?”
I know that we do gift boxes of
filets, but I’m not sure of the details, so I tell him I’ll have to ask when I
get to the shop tomorrow.
“Any info on how much
meat is in there and how much would help, but trying to get them something they’ll
enjoy and actually use.”
I tell him as much as
I know off the top of my head: “I think you can either get 10 or 20
filets, either the 6 oz. or 8 oz. size. Individually, a 6 oz. is $7 and an 8
oz. is $9. I think they would take a little something off if you’re getting a
gift box though.” I’ve also seen gift boxes
of pre-made hamburgers, but in my mind that’s more of an everyday thing, not a
holiday gift.
“Would assume so,
usually how it works. Not bad though.”
When I get to work
Saturday, I ask Grace about gift boxes.
She tells me that we can
do a box of any kind of meat, not just filets; if you give a price point they
can match it up. I relay this to my
friend.
“Wooo! I’m going to have to come in after Christmas,
that’s when I do my shopping anyway. Any odd holiday hours I should know about?”
“We’ll be here late
Tuesday and out by 4 Wednesday. After Christmas hours are regular.” It doesn’t even occur to me to ask about
anything after Christmas yet. I’m just
trying to get through this week.
The day after Christmas, I am
spending time with family visiting from out of town—not even thinking about the
shop—when he sends me another message: “Didn’t know you guys were closed
today. L”
Neither did I; I had
no plans to go in, so I didn’t bother asking when we’d be open. But it makes sense; we’re open Christmas Eve
for pickups. It’s like the day after
Thanksgiving; everyone should already have plenty of food, and Tommy deserves a
day off with as hard as he works leading up to the holiday.
Oh well. Guess that’s two people now who know not to
ask me for meat favors. I tried.
* * *
Remember
my discussion with Tommy about what size gloves I wear? Well they got me a box . . . of mediums.
They fit better, but are still too big.
And Tommy can’t believe it. I
don’t really get what’s so hard to understand about the fact that I have small
hands. I’m not lying about it; they’re
right here, attached at the ends of my wrists, in plain sight. Still, any size gloves help keep my fingers
from freezing; better than wearing none at all.
Apparently John—the shorter of the
two college kids, who Nicole keeps calling Jack, so I call him JohnJack—has
been using the mediums as well, so the one box they got runs out after only a
few days.
“That John, he seems like an
attractive guy,” Tommy comments, and looks at me expectantly.
I don’t understand the
question. How does someone seem attractive? “Does he?” I ask.
Tommy stutters, backtracking, “I
dunno, I just thought maybe—him and Alex are both pretty good-looking
guys.” Alex would be the taller college
kid.
“Hm.” I bend over my tenderloin and begin slicing
it into filets.
Luke Johnson limps in, sniffling and
coughing, and starts trimming tenderloins across from me at the board. He just got back from playing a soccer
game. I’m missing my 9:45 game tonight
because after I’m finished here (Which, who am I kidding? There is no “finishing”; there is just the
point when I throw my hands up and say I’ve done all I can here.) I have a
family get-together. I don’t get to see
my nephews at the big family party this Christmas, so this is the only chance I
have to drop their presents off with my cousins.
To
clarify: my “nephews” are actually my
cousins’ kids, but my cousins and I are as close as siblings, so their kids all
call me “Aunt.” Plus, neither of my
brothers want kids, so I’ll never have any “real” nieces or nephews. My family’s weird like that sometimes; I have
a couple cousins through marriage who call me “niece,” simply because they’re
so much older than I am, and their own parents (who would be my aunts/uncles) have passed on.
My phone buzzes. It’s my cousin, hostess of the party.
“Sup u comin over?”
I reply that yes, I will be leaving
work at 9, changing clothes in the car, and then driving from Brentwood to
Wentzville in order to party with her.
“Ok!
Cant wait im drunk and doin dance dance on xbox.”
Oh man, I can’t wait to see this!
Luke
Johnson notices that my gloves keep falling off.
“You
should complain that they don’t have any gloves that fit you; they’re only
meeting the man’s needs, they’re not catering to your needs.”
Without
missing a beat, I haughtily respond, “I’m quite capable of meeting my needs on
my own, thanks.”
Luke
Johnson huffs, a smile playing about his lips, but says nothing.
Luke
Johnson is struggling. His back keeps
hurting him while standing upright, so he will bend over until his back is
parallel to the floor. He keeps wiping
his running nose on his shirt sleeve.
Nicole tries to comfort him, rubbing his shoulders and telling him how
much she appreciates his help.
He
complains, “I don’t like it when I’m here.”
There is a slight pause while I set
my knife down and coolly say, “I don’t like it when you’re here either.”
“I know!” he almost laughs.
Slowly I turn to open the back door
to the cooler, my eyes roving from him to Nicole and back again, “Just . . . so
everybody . . . knows. . . .”
I get nowhere near the amount of
filets cut that are needed for Christmas Eve, but I have to hang up my apron
for today.
“Are you coming in tomorrow? You have to work your day job, don’t you.”
“I—” was supposed to work my day job, but my boss decided to give Work
Wife the day off, so I’m taking the day off too. “—I am not coming in tomorrow, sorry.”
“Okay hon, have a great Christmas
and we’ll see you next week for the New Year’s rush!”
Oh.
Yeah. New Year’s.
I
haven’t posted much lately of what I’ve been cooking, here’s the rundown:
I
am obsessed with paleo pancakes smothered in fruit compote. Banana, egg, pumpkin puree or almond butter,
vanilla extract, coconut flour. So
delicious. For the compote I dissolve
brown sugar into melted butter, then add frozen berries and cook until they’re
warmed through.
I
haven’t eaten pasta in so long, but this here is the way to do it: butternut squash puree with three kinds of
cheese melted in (gruyere, white cheddar, and parmesan). Add in the cooked noodles, top with more
cheese, broil until bubbly!
Finally,
a friend plans to sell these (and other) awesome cutting boards on Etsy, and I bought
one of the prototypes! Will post a link
if/when she gets her store up and going.
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