They Ought To Sick the Dogs On Him!
There are 69 special orders today, December 23.
The Christmas rush at the butcher shop has steadily increased over the past couple of days. We have all been working full shifts to accommodate the many denizens of Los Feliz, Silverlake and the Hollywod Hills. The work experience is intense. Flowing. Dancing. Learned skills being called to task along with new skills being learned on the spot. With one cut, a knife is used a certain way. With another, the knife is used differently.
Cycling home last night in a reverie, I was thinking of a wisdom told to me about Native American / First Nation hunters hunting for meat for their people. They would wait and pray for the animal who would sacrifice itself for the good of the tribe. When the animal showed they would make sure the strike was clean and direct to the heart. The animal was sacrificing itself for the tribe. A clean shot would cause the animal a minimum amount of damage and pain.
I realize the the same is true of cutting and trimming meat and fish. It’s become clear that a definite, clean stroke is a way of treating the animal with respect. It is still alive. The animating spirit is still in the meat, though not in the ways we have been led to believe. A jagged cut is not much different then a bad shot where the animal suffers. A clean stroke is one of respect. A trim gets rid of excess. It becomes clear how we can follow through with this divinity practice with the care we take in the preparation of this food, and more importantly, the many ways we can play with this source of nourishment to add pleasure and satisfaction to our lives. That, too, is a creator of compassion.
We adapt to the increase of customers as we get closer to Christmas. Today, I am to stand by the door and let 10 people in at a time. This manages the flow of work and store interactions.
It’s 10:29. I ask Olin and the team if everyone is ready to go…
“Let’s light this candle, Moe”
“Lock and load.”
I unlock the door, step outside, and face the customers.
“Welcome to the Sunday edition of Macintosh’s Meat and Fish. We will be letting 10 people in at a time. Please take a number when you enter the store. The dispenser is to your left as you walk in. If you don’t have a special order and would like to know of a specific cut you would like to see if we have, let me know and I will check for you. Do you all understand?”
People nod their head in agreement. I let in the first 10.
It’s been interesting to see “privilege” in action the past couple days. The word has many degrees of meaning for me. And what I have seen the past couple of days is of its current cultural meaning. Men and women having the expectation of being served at a moment’s notice, and disgusted when not. Some are looking like reptiles coming out of the darkness into the light. Pompous and petty men and women…some trying to impress their partners, other demanding their intellect and presence be met. “This person needs to be spanked” I hear myself say at times. I soon find myself being impatient as I keep being confronted with the show they are putting on…and the cluelessness they have to a process they are a part of and refuse to accept…that it’s not the end game that matters. It’s the game as a whole.
It’s time to let the next ten people in. The people in the line are busy with their cells phones. I think, “You really see what a person is like when you watch them have to wait.” I watch the gang helping customers in the store. Megan, Danny, Ernesto and Bart cutting the meat and fish behind the gang. Everyone is meeting the needs and wants of the moment. The interacting process seems as seamless as it can be. I feel a bit bored and wishing I was in the shop involved in the flow that is taking place behind the counter.
A woman inside the store comes up to me. She is anxious and holds an envelope in her hand. I see that her grocery list is written on it. She asks me if we have chicken thighs along with other items on her list. She has French accent, early 40’s, thin with brown hair to her shoulders, and looks like she has recently gotten out of bed, threw on the clothes that she gardens in, and rushed to the store.
I look at her list. I tell her that we may have all her other requests and that she will still have to wait.
I turn my attention back indoors and watch the French women. She is so anxious. I look at her eyes. She looks like she is going to burst into tears. Behind the counter, Kenya smiles and winks as she catches my eye. Jim calls out in his deep voice, “Number 74? Number 74” I think that was the year the Dodgers went to the World Series. I do an advance count of the next ten customers I will let in. As I do this I find that I am chanting “Hare Krishna.” I settle on letting them in when the last three of the previous group are being served. I see John has arrived. It is near noon. We’ve been open for an hour and a half. I realize that John is going to take my place. John works in the back contributing to the flow by dish washing and filling in when needed. He’s about 5'6, black, and moved here from Atlanta about a year ago. Good man, bright smile. His shyness and gentlemanly way covers a wicked sense of humor.
We switch positions. I go behind the counter. I hear Olin.
“Moe, take your ten. There’s some pizza in the back”
I go back to the office. There are four boxes for the all of us. I grab a slice of basil/tomato and another slice with cheese thinking “to hell with not having sugar today”. I want to be a part of the gang and devour them. I also haven’t had pizza in a long time.
I finish my three slices and go back out to the counter. Within five minute I feel the sugar crash and a headache coming. As annoying and spacey as it feels, I like that my body’s response is so clear and obvious.
Groups of ten continue to be let in. The special orders are moved along. Lots of prime ribs. I use my reading glasses to read the tickets for special orders on the wall. Nathan shows me how to cut pork chops off a rack of ribs. Larry walks by mentioning how someone left a hundred dollar tip. I make sure I drink water to clear the sugar haze. We all kvetch when we can about the customers. In this environment we can’t help by being curt, unspoken or not. Time is taking on a different dimension. A customer is asking for a lamb shoulder roast. I have one that is 7lbs. She wants 5. I go back to the counter to cut it to spec. Larry is there trussing a chicken.
He says to me,
“A woman outside in line said about John that “they should sick the dogs on him”
I am stunned. It hits like a thunderclap. It’s unexpected and, in some ways from what I’ve seen of customers in the past couple of days, not surprising.
I am livid. He is my friend. We should not allow her to shop here. Do we even know who she is? How are we going to respond to this.
We all continue to move on. The cases begin to empty of special orders and product. More requests are denied. I briefly go to the back room for water and see John eating, quiet and alone. I wonder if he knows that we know. I feel pissed inside. I take my break, go to Little Dom’s Cafe to eat my avocado and egg salad and read a little bit of the Times.
I get back. It’s 45 minutes to closing. Customers keep coming in. It’s hard not to think that some their requests are just ludicrous. We are all tired. There is a low tolerance for indecision. I see that it is 5 minutes to close. I tell John to get to the door and prepare to lock it.
Clean up is light tonight. Major clean will be tomorrow. I cater wrap the baguettes and jellies in plastic wrap. I hear Olin talking with John about what has happened. She is saying to him that if it happens again, come and gets him immediately. It’s unacceptable.
Cleanup is quick tonight. Nate tells me I will be working the door again tomorrow and the importance of the job. He smiles when he says the line will be around the block. I tell him we should have an open-carry space and that I want a holster with two six shooters. The space is clean. The shelves look good. Olin and Nate are going to work into the night preparing and tying prime ribs for tomorrow. Olin says,
“Moe, go get the bourbon and clean out the shot glasses”
It’s a request. After a solid and intense day of work, we all want to have a good time. I joke about how someone told me once that when someone tells you to stop pouring alcohol or wine, go ahead and pour for two more seconds.
I bring out the fun for everyone. As I pour into the first glass, Nate says to me,
“Moe, I want a third the size of what you poured.”
I pour to everyone’s request. I fill Olin’s class last. She tells me to stop. I pour a second more. She laughs. I raise my glass and say,
“Here’s to aged beef, aged cheese and aged whiskey”
Tomorrow, there will be 83 special orders.
