knows their names and somehow
has time for a bit of conversation with each of them, even when it's busy. And I like having him around the place. The cutting
table is surrounded by a constant flow of testosterone. Normally I enjoy being one of the guys, all of us competing to out-trash-talk
one another. But sometimes I'm really thankful for a calm, simply kind presence like Jesse's. So why not take him up on a
bicycle outing, after all? Or a drink after work? Why do I more often than not decline Josh and Jessica's invitations to dinner,
Aaron's elaborate weekend agendas? (He's in the process now of formulating a shop-wide mustache contest and has been cultivating
a great handlebar monstrosity with the care of Mr. Miyagi trimming a bonsai tree. He tells of combing and waxing and shaping
endlessly. "We have an extra bathroom at home just for the mustache," he says, and I believe him.) It's not just exhaustion,
which I often plead, or my anxiety to get back to the city and my husband and animals. There's something else at work here.
After I get the bone off and slapped into the designated "bone" can that stands at one end of the table, lined with a heavy-duty
garbage bag, I move on to the top round, a circle of flesh, about as big as a hubcap. It's part of the steer's buttock, basically,
thick on one side, near to where it once clung to the aitch, thinning at the edges, as the muscle peters out toward the base
of the shank. I start at this thin edge, pulling up at the muscle and flicking at the filaments underneath, until the meat
rolls off. I trim away a bit of the hardened outer layer of fat and remove the cap, another, smaller circle of meat that sits
atop the round like, well, a cap.
I've pulled well ahead of Jesse, which is not surprising. He doesn't get a lot of cutting practice, and I've been working
here three or four days a week, ten hours a day, for three months now. Not all of that time is spent at the table, of course--there's
the Cryovac machine to be worked, wholesale orders to be compiled, coolers and freezers to reorganize, and of course a fair
amount of sitting around shooting the shit--but I've clocked enough time to have picked up a good bit of speed. We've descended
back into silence now, all of us working intently, no noise but the music on the iPod (we've switched to early Madonna), the
slap of meat on wood or into plastic luggers, the clatter of bones into the can. I pull out the big leg bone, peel the cylindrical
eye round off the side of the trapezoidal bottom round. Pull out the thick, veined wedge of fat in the center with its trove
of glutinous glands, roll out the conical knuckle. All these (but for the fat wedge, which is thrown away) will be bagged
pretty much as is. I have to trim the silver skin off one sloping side of the bottom round. Aaron may have me tie it to cook
for the roast beef he will (closely) supervise me making. Aaron's method for roasting beef for the front counter always varies
slightly. At the moment, it goes just about like this:
A ARON'S R OAST B EEF
7 pounds bottom round, trimmed of silver skin, fat cap left on
Salt and pepper
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 onion, sliced into 1/2-inch rounds
4 cloves garlic, lightly crushed
6 two-inch marrow bones
3 tablespoons butter, sliced into thin pats
Preheat the oven to 300degF.
Tie the round with butcher's twine into a neat, even rectangle, or have your butcher do it for you. Season the roast generously
with salt and pepper on all sides.
In a large ovenproof roasting pan, heat the oil on the stove over high heat until it's reached that Beckettian "almost smoking"
point. Sear the roast on all sides, taking particular care that the fat side reaches a good, crusty brown. Take the roast
from the pan and set aside on a plate, then turn off the heat under the pan. Add the onion and garlic, briefly browning them
using the residual heat, before setting the marrow bones in among
has time for a bit of conversation with each of them, even when it's busy. And I like having him around the place. The cutting
table is surrounded by a constant flow of testosterone. Normally I enjoy being one of the guys, all of us competing to out-trash-talk
one another. But sometimes I'm really thankful for a calm, simply kind presence like Jesse's. So why not take him up on a
bicycle outing, after all? Or a drink after work? Why do I more often than not decline Josh and Jessica's invitations to dinner,
Aaron's elaborate weekend agendas? (He's in the process now of formulating a shop-wide mustache contest and has been cultivating
a great handlebar monstrosity with the care of Mr. Miyagi trimming a bonsai tree. He tells of combing and waxing and shaping
endlessly. "We have an extra bathroom at home just for the mustache," he says, and I believe him.) It's not just exhaustion,
which I often plead, or my anxiety to get back to the city and my husband and animals. There's something else at work here.
After I get the bone off and slapped into the designated "bone" can that stands at one end of the table, lined with a heavy-duty
garbage bag, I move on to the top round, a circle of flesh, about as big as a hubcap. It's part of the steer's buttock, basically,
thick on one side, near to where it once clung to the aitch, thinning at the edges, as the muscle peters out toward the base
of the shank. I start at this thin edge, pulling up at the muscle and flicking at the filaments underneath, until the meat
rolls off. I trim away a bit of the hardened outer layer of fat and remove the cap, another, smaller circle of meat that sits
atop the round like, well, a cap.
I've pulled well ahead of Jesse, which is not surprising. He doesn't get a lot of cutting practice, and I've been working
here three or four days a week, ten hours a day, for three months now. Not all of that time is spent at the table, of course--there's
the Cryovac machine to be worked, wholesale orders to be compiled, coolers and freezers to reorganize, and of course a fair
amount of sitting around shooting the shit--but I've clocked enough time to have picked up a good bit of speed. We've descended
back into silence now, all of us working intently, no noise but the music on the iPod (we've switched to early Madonna), the
slap of meat on wood or into plastic luggers, the clatter of bones into the can. I pull out the big leg bone, peel the cylindrical
eye round off the side of the trapezoidal bottom round. Pull out the thick, veined wedge of fat in the center with its trove
of glutinous glands, roll out the conical knuckle. All these (but for the fat wedge, which is thrown away) will be bagged
pretty much as is. I have to trim the silver skin off one sloping side of the bottom round. Aaron may have me tie it to cook
for the roast beef he will (closely) supervise me making. Aaron's method for roasting beef for the front counter always varies
slightly. At the moment, it goes just about like this:
A ARON'S R OAST B EEF
7 pounds bottom round, trimmed of silver skin, fat cap left on
Salt and pepper
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 onion, sliced into 1/2-inch rounds
4 cloves garlic, lightly crushed
6 two-inch marrow bones
3 tablespoons butter, sliced into thin pats
Preheat the oven to 300degF.
Tie the round with butcher's twine into a neat, even rectangle, or have your butcher do it for you. Season the roast generously
with salt and pepper on all sides.
In a large ovenproof roasting pan, heat the oil on the stove over high heat until it's reached that Beckettian "almost smoking"
point. Sear the roast on all sides, taking particular care that the fat side reaches a good, crusty brown. Take the roast
from the pan and set aside on a plate, then turn off the heat under the pan. Add the onion and garlic, briefly browning them
using the residual heat, before setting the marrow bones in among
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