Cowboys on the Strand

Warning: Nothing that follows is politically correct. But it’s accurate. Back when I was a teen and worked as a journeyman meatcutter, the butcher shop was the wild wild west of the food market. It wasn’t like it is today, when most cuts of meat come pre-packaged and it is hard to find someone who knows the different cuts of beef. Hell no.

You had to be strong enough to heft a side of cow, smart enough to visualize the various cuts of steak in 3D, supple enough to handle a band saw without slicing off one of your fingers, and deft enough with a boning knife to know how to take the discarded scraps of choice cuts and trim them into the most profitable item in the store — ground hamburger.

Meatcutters were part artist, part bohemian, and part crazy, They brought their own set of knives to work, smoked and cussed incessantly, flirted with every female that came their way, and often came to work hungover if not still drunk. They were arrogant assholes, mostly conservative in their political views, and didn’t so much walk around the shop as strut. They all seemed to be divorced or married for the second or thrid time, and didn’t seem to give a shit about anything much but their craft. But they were damned good at their craft.

My butcher shop of choice in the Carmel Maket in Tel Aviv, pictured here, still carries faint resonances of that place of my youth. It adds its own bit of soul to soul food Tel Aviv.