Ode to the butcher

Ok. If you are reading this there is a good chance you live in Astoria, or close to it. If not, I might suggest moving here. Short of that, lets hope you have a real-deal, no-bs, old-school butcher nearby. I’m talking sawdust floors (at least in the freezer area). Hopefully, English is spoken with an accent. If Arabic, Greek, Hindi(u?), or Spanish music is blaring in the background, this is another good sign. And, as a rule, if everyone there is related, at least by marriage, you are all set. This is my ode to the butcher’s shop, and the true artisans of food today, the butcher.

Hanging sausages, sometimes the obligatory specialty olive oil or imported olives, cases full of mysterious ethnic delicacies , and always big slabs of meat. Glorious meat.

You would think your average butcher would be a macabre, dour man who hates the world. I am sure there are butchers out there who have wallowed in the fact that they deal in dead animals and have a considerable amount of angst for that reason. I, however, am yet to meet that butcher. As a rule, he is bubbly (mine tells jokes and sings Abba whilst hacking a rabbit into perfect quarters), kind-hearted, and interestingly enough, something of an amateur linguist. Recently I saw a conversation between a mystery-language speaking customer and my new friend Dimitri go something like this. “My Enleesh is bad. Do you have eentinsteen poork? You understand?” “Yeah I have it… for sausage.”

Boom. The man wanted to make sausage. Can you think 1) of wanting to make sausage (if you can, do comment on my blog, some part of me loves you) and 2) that a man who speaks Greek first and English second would decipher broken English to figure this out? How about the fact that he convinced a somewhat distraught customer that the rabbit he was whacking away at was “a mean, angry rabbit… the worst!.... really, don’t be sad.” Or that he was able to blushingly divert the attentions of a flirting Astoria debutant onto me, “yes he cooks! He’s a good cook! For all the guests!”

Whether you need a very nice roaster chicken, oxtail (I cannot help but post on oxtail someday soon), a beautiful steak or a Christmas goose, Dimitri can help. And he isn’t alone. Service of the slicing and hacking variety is expected and goes unpaid for (my fish monger has a tip jar… he does not.) “No really, I can clean up this beef loin myself!” *Dubious, “oh-come-come-now” look* “ok, thanks Dimitri.”

My point of this rambling post is simple. Buy from the butcher. His prices are reasonable. Talk to him… chances are, that really scary looking… whatever-the-hell it is in the case is delicious and he can tell you how to cook it. If his special of the day isn’t ridiculously fresh he’ll tell you so. He is, as a rule, a pillar of the community, and he is worth a weekly visit.

Thanks Dimitri,

James