Zen and Meat Fabrication

There's often a lot of testosterone and braggardly boy talk flowing through the butchery kitchen. Perhaps it's the proximity of sharp knives, the ever-present risk of sudden wounding, the plethora of dead animals. But conversation often runs in the "biggest cut/most stitches/gruesomest thing ever" vein, almost to the point of hilarity, like a really scary Haunted House. And one of my classmates handed over his chicken pieces today, for Andrea and I to sort and package them, and he referred to us as "little ladies." He won't be doing that again. I was holding a sharp knife.

Actually, once we all assume our stations and get to work in the morning, the kitchen becomes quietly intense. Chef Allen mentioned it as he gave our table a knife-sharpening demonstration: "When I'm pissed at the world, I go into my kitchen and sharpen my knives." And it's not in preparation for a duel. The process of cutting meat is very calming. You go through a ritual of readiness: checking the list of required cuts, sanitizing the table, selecting and choosing your knives, preparing a pan to hold your product, finding your boxes or packages in the walk-in refrigerator: all part of getting set up. Then you meet your prey, as it were. As in woodworking (where I have some roots, please excuse the expression), every piece of material (log, plank / chicken, cow) is different. You need to get acquainted with it before you begin work. When you pull the chicken out of the box, she's a bit misshapen, so you place her on the cutting board, legs towards you, and push her gently into shape. Only then do you make your first cut.

Chef Allen demonstrated the fabrication of a whole top round, a somewhat rectanglar hunk of meat weighing about 20 pounds. This is the cut you know best as "roast beef," as in "roast beef sandwich." I watched my dad cut — "fabricate"!! — hundreds of top rounds during the eight years he was a delicatessen proprietor. It was my favorite part of the day, before the store was open. That's when we'd work in the kitchen, in the back, making big pots of stock and chili, pans of lasagna and frittata, bins full of potato and macaroni salad. Dad trimmed the beef, removing the top thick layer of fat. Then he'd flip it over, and carefully trim out the silverskin and veins that run along the bottom. He'd cut the cleaned muscle into two even pieces, and tie each neatly, in 2-inch intervals. Then the roasts would be salted and peppered, thoroughly, and roasted. The process was detailed and time-consuming. The radio would be on, loud. I don't think I've ever seen my dad more content.