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:
No comments:
Post a Comment