The Butcher's Apprentice 2.0

I play soccer with a girl named Summer who was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer two years ago.  She went through treatment, and is now considered No Evidence of Disease.

Pre-cancer Summer never used cuss words.

Post-cancer Summer does not give a fuck.

We call her Summer 2.0. 

I’ve been wondering why working at Burt’s shop this season isn’t stressing me out and pissing me off like it did last year.  Is it because they’re paying me more?  Is it because they’ve all been really nice and appreciative of my efforts?  Is it because I’m working shorter shifts?  Is it because I’m not getting emotionally invested this time?  Is it because I get to hang out with hot twenty-year-olds all day?

            All valid reasons, but I think I’ve got a better one:

            No Luke Johnson.

            No racist remarks . . . no sexist comments . . . no domineering misogynist hovering over my every move . . . harping on my dating life . . . taunting me; patronizing me; and in general oozing with derision, ridicule, and mockery. 

            To put it bluntly, it no longer feels like work.

            Grace has been talking a lot about “staggering coverage.”  I’m going to be coming in at night a lot, after the shop is closed to customers.  This is good because 1) I don’t like customers.  I haven’t worked a job where I’ve had to deal with the general public in seven years, and I like it just fine.  My job is much easier when I don’t have someone walking in asking for “Four sixes and six eights no bacon no seasoning and can you make them all one piece please” every half hour or so.  2) I don’t know how to work the register, so I’m not much help anyways.  3) Shorter shifts will be easier on my thumb, and I won’t leave feeling exhausted—feet throbbing, back aching—all of which translates to:  I won’t get burnt out so quickly.    

            I offer to come in for the later shifts on Saturday and Sunday as well.  This works out better for me because Frank goes into work at 2pm those days, so we can spend the morning and lunch time together. 

When I walk in for my first evening shift, Nicole picks me up and hugs me so hard that she drops her container of tea and it breaks and spills all over the cooler floor. 

She missed me.

Then Kyle tells me, “Tommy said that we’re not allowed to talk to you since you have a boyfriend now.”

Sigh.  “Well, my boyfriend is not in high school, so I can talk to the boys that I work with.  Come to think of it, I can talk to whoever the fuck I want.” 

“Burt, did you hear what Tommy told the other guys?”

“What?”

“He told them that they’re not allowed to talk to me because I have a boyfriend.”

He laughs, “Being protective.”

Like a big brother of sorts, I suppose.  He certainly has a strange way of showing it.

Saturday afternoon, the shop is bustling and Gus is set up on “my” side of the cutting board, so I work on the small board in the back room.  This is a much better arrangement because:  a) I get to listen to bluegrass Christmas music on the radio; b) please refer to point number 1 above; and c) please refer to point number 2 above. 

“What do you want me to work on, Tommy?”

He smiles a half-cocked grin.

He knows I’m going to hate this.

“Filets.”

If I think of myself as more of a specialist, I manage not to hate it too much.

Grace drops a few order tickets dated today and tomorrow on the board in front of me, one of which is written in permanent marker on a post-it.  We are forever trying to find pens, tape, and staplers in this place. 

I’ve been working for about an hour when Gus hurries into the back room.

“The guy is already here for that order,” he says, pointing to the post-it.

            “I have a whole tray ready; take whatever you need.”

            He grabs four filets in his hands and says, “Man these are pretty,” clutches them to his chest, and takes off running for the front of the store.    

He’s wearing cologne today.    

           

            “Did you hear that Tommy went into a black hole for a month and a half?” Grace asks.

            “What?  When?  Why didn’t you guys call—” me?

            “We called Cory to see if he would fill in; you know what he said?”

            I shake my head.

            “He said he wanted half the store.  Half the take from the register every day.”

            “Oh wow.”

            “He just thinks he’s such hot shit,” Nicole chimes in.

            No, he just got tired of nicely telling you guys no.  “He works way too many hours at his other job, he probably doesn’t have time anyways.”

            Somehow Nicole manages to make it sound like an accusation when she adds, “He got so lucky with that barbecue job.” 

You’re damn right he did.  You have no clue the number of shit jobs he worked before this, do you?  He worked at butcher shops that had bars on the windows.  The place he’s at now has opened up so many opportunities for him; he caters every celebrity and politician that comes into town.  They’ve expanded and opened up five new restaurants in the last couple of years, and they’re talking about letting Cory set up a Chicago location.  Burt’s shop has expanded to a second smoker, and a rented refrigerated truck out back. 

“You know he went to school for English?”

“Poetry,” I correct her.  “I know.”  I know better than you think. 

A few days ago, Burt was talking about Darren—one of the older guys who helped out last year—coming back again this season.

“Aw man, Darren’s gonna be here?  He’s awesome!”  I’m excited.  We had a Christmas Carol Dance Party in the back room last year—me, Darren, and Burt.

            “But who do you like more, Cory or Darren?” Kyle asks.

            I stumble over my own thoughts for a moment . . . I don’t really know Darren that well; I’m much better friends with Cory, but they’re both really personable. 

            When I finally get my tongue straight, I say, “Apple and oranges, Kyle; apples and oranges.” 

*                      *                      *

“Hey Burt, have you ever heard of tourtière?”

He has not.

Tourtière is a Canadian meat pie; I got to help make a bunch of them last Sunday night with my friend Chef Leonard.

I have absolutely no business knowing this damn quebecois chef. 

Let me explain.

Two years ago I read an article about a secret underground dinner society in one of our lovely local food mags.  The article said that if you want an invite to one of these clandestine events, you need to follow this group of scoundrels on Twitter. 

So I did.

The scoundrels followed me back.

We started talking.

They invited me over for poutine one night, but I was too chicken shit to go alone.  Seriously, they could have been a football team trying to lure me in with delicious gravy and French fries.  They know what women want.

We wound up going to Shakespeare in the Park on the same night two years ago.  Once again, I was too wussy to go wandering around the glen looking for someone wearing a hat with their covert symbol on it.  So they—more specifically, he—approached me.  Turns out, this group of charlatans is headed up by a sweet Canadian man and his wife.  They invited me to their picnic blanket for homemade limoncello, and a friendship was born. 

To anyone who knows about the secret dinner society, I stalked him on the internet until he noticed me.  To anyone who doesn’t, we met at Shakespeare in the Park. 

Fast forward to the present:  Chef Leonard has brewed his first batch of homemade beer, and invited me over for the unveiling.  It is a kolsch, and I hate kolsches. 

However, since this is homebrewed and bottled in brown containers that didn’t sit out in the sun for hours on end while in the back of a hot truck on its way across the country, this kolsch is damn good. 

But that’s not the real reason for this get-together.  What really brought us together is meat pie.

Apparently this is a Canadian holiday tradition.  Everyone makes a tourtière at home (because of course, everyone’s mom/grandmother/aunt has the best tourtière recipe) and brings it to the party, where they make a bunch more.  You eat, you laugh, you enjoy each other’s company, and then everyone goes home with another tourtière.

Canadians, man.

So I’m helping Chef Leonard with the pie filling—ground beef and lamb, cubed potatoes, chopped onion, ginger, clove, and nutmeg—while his wife (a pastry chef) handles the crusts and tops.  Chef Leonard pulls something solid and white and shaped like a loaf of bread out of the freezer.  He slices off two chunks about the size of a thick piece of bread.  And tosses one in each of the pots of raw meat I am stirring.

It’s duck fat.

He has.  A loaf.  Of duck fat.  In his freezer.

“This is the good stuff, too,” he smiles.

Everyone who comes to this party brings something:  cheese, bread, hummus, wine.  We have quite a spread going already . . . and then Garrett walks in. 

Garrett is the co-founder of the underground dinner society, and younger and handsomer than I expected.  He arrives laden with containers of food—leftovers from a catering gig the night before.  It is frankly excessive:  raw blue cheese, naan, tapenade, two trays of polenta, beef jowl, candied walnuts . . . and goat cheese.  But not just goat cheese:  three 5”x5”x5” tubs of goat cheese.  That is 375 cubic inches of goat cheese.  And it’s just sitting there, free for the taking.  I grab the naan and start shoveling. 

Garrett runs a local coffee shop, and has two daughters.  He mentioned a wife giving birth to them, but when I later stalk him out on social media, I learn that he is now single.

I find myself in a position in life where I am surrounded by hot available men . . . and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

What the hell, universe?  Where were all these hot single interesting dudes when I was single?

Here’s the thing, universe.  It doesn’t matter how many hot 20-year-olds or doctors or chefs you throw at me.  I’ve met someone I fit with better than I’ve ever fit with anyone, and I’m not giving him up for anything. 

I straight up told Frank that if I were single, I’d probably hit on Gus.  His response was, “You’re probably the hottest girl those guys have seen . . . ever.” 

I doubt that, but I’ll take the compliment.

I’d love to sit here and say that if I were single, ten years younger, and we didn’t work together, then I’d hit on Gus, but look here:  I’m not getting any younger, or prettier.  The time frame for twenty-year-olds wanting to hook up with me is rapidly drawing to a close, so I would take advantage of that shit while I still could.  

And Frank understands that.  He understands that I was alone for the better part of three years before I met him, and I still find myself in that “single” mindset sometimes.  He’s patient with my stubborn, frustrating independence.  And that’s why I love him.

Man, it’s weird how open I am with my private life when no one is nagging or judging me about it.

But anyways, back to the topic at hand:  meat pies.  You eat tourtière topped with either ketchup or maple syrup.  I didn’t catch the “either” in Chef Leonard’s statement, so I wound up covering mine in both.  It was pretty good, actually.

His wife makes Poor Man’s Pudding for dessert:  a sweet vanilla cake soaking in maple sauce. 

Good company, good beer, and great food.  This is a holiday tradition that I can get behind.

Canadians, dude.

*                      *                      *

As the day draws to a close, I start setting the case for tomorrow.  I slice a tray of ribeyes off a hunk sitting in the case. 

And not even five minutes later, Gus is cutting new ribeyes off another slab of meat.

“What, those beautiful ribeyes that I just cut weren’t good enough for you?” I ask.

            “They’re not big enough.”

            “They’re over an inch,” I insist.

            “Well, your inch is a little short.”

            You men are always trying to turn four inches into eight so don’t tell me that I don’t know how to measure.  “They’re over an inch.”  I grab a ruler out of the bin next to me and chuck it at him.  It hits the board and the ribeye in front of him.

            “What—?” he stutters as I walk away.

            The Butcher’s Apprentice 2.0.

            No fucks given.