Fleishers Craft Butchery: Day 1

That morning when I stepped off the bus in Red Hook and looked down towards the end of the pier, it hit me. This was my future. This is what I’ve been planning and waiting for and now, here I am. Standing in front of a weathered, wharf warehouse, waiting for my life to kickstart. At the end of the pier there was a small sign hanging on a fabricated metal door. It read “Fleishers Craft Butchery.”

Let’s do this.

As I entered the building I was immediately embraced by my new coworkers: Timmy, a fellow apprentice from Chicago who was tired of trading stocks and my instructor, Jason, who left the DA’s office in New York to become a craft butcher. I could tell I was really going to like these guys.

Straightaway, I felt like a kid on the first day of school. New teacher. New friends. New supplies. I was given my equipment that included chain-mail and knives. The chain-mail apron runs from the top of the chest to just above the kneecaps. Its purpose is to protect important things like femoral arteries. The chain-mail glove, which I’ve come to greatly appreciate, lets me be free with my non-cutting hand and I don’t have to constantly worry about nicking myself. Of the three knives I was given, one was a 5-inch boning knife, another was a 6-inch boning knife, and lastly an 8-inch “breaker.”

My scabbard of knives and my chain-mail glove

Jason started us off slow and had us de-bone a lamb’s neck. He gave us step-by-step instructions on how to break down a lamb, all the while educating us on its anatomy. After a quick “warm-up” break (because it’s 37 degrees in the processing room) he pointed to the rack and told us rookies to give it a shot.

Timmy and I were slow and we asked a lot of questions. But practice makes perfect and by the end of the morning and six lambs later, we had become faster on the full carcass break down as well as savvier on the lamb anatomy.

Carrying lamb carcasses from cooler to cooler.

Of course I came to Fleishers to learn, but I was starting to see I would be gaining so much more than butcher skills. I could immediately sense the tight community these craft butchers have. They really believe in the idea of slow food, locally sourced food, and conscientious food. While Timmy and I were hacking away in the walk-in cooler, the Fleishers chef was busy preparing us lunch. I couldn’t believe it. Everyday these folks stop, sit down, and share a beautiful meal together. Family style. What a nice surprise and delicious blessing.

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After lunch we were back to the cutting block for a lesson in pork. Jason gave us a demo and then prompted us to do the same with our own sides of pork.

Again, I was slow and loaded with lots of questions, but Jason was patient and his clear step-by-step method simplified everything for me.

Introduction to pork

The beginnings of a pork breakdown

Pork breakdown

At 4:15 Jason instructed us to start cleaning our equipment and prepare to wrap up the day. Here’s the problem,

I didn’t want to leave.

My first day of apprenticeship rocked and I didn’t want to go back to my apartment and stare at the hairless cat. Gratefully, Sophie, Fleishers' social media guru, asked me if we wanted to tag along on a company outing.

Are you kidding me,

Hell yeah, I’m going.

(to be continued)

A view from the wharf upon "Lady Liberty."

Brooklyn Cowboy

I boarded my plane in Austin and as luck would have it, I was seated next to “those people.” It’s 10:30 in the morning and they’re already lubricated pretty good. They were headed to New Orleans so I can understand why, but come on. However, they did buy me a drink.

I guess all’s fair in love and liquor.

I arrived at LaGuardia around 5:45 PM and received a text from my new roommate as soon as I powered up my phone.  He had graciously left me a key under the doormat for my arrival. He also mentioned that my overnight boxes weren’t delivered because no one was at the apartment to sign for them. Dang, that meant no bedding, no Kuerig, and no bathroom essentials.

No big deal.

I’m a survivor.

One key to survival I’ve learned is blend in. Long story short, I don’t. I stick out like a sore thumb. And I know this because everyone I pass on the streets calls me “Cowboy.” They think they're clever.  If they only knew the guy a half block up just said the same thing. It's ok though.  I don't mind it.  My grandfather told me when he did business in this city, he got called "Cowboy" too.

I'm residing in a 4 bedroom sub-let with three other people and two cats. One is black and the other is hairless and both are curious.  They stuck around while I took in my new apartment and unpacked. My shoebox-sized room is roughly the size of a queen mattress with an additional three feet at the end of the bed. No air conditioning.

It’s a glamorous life in Crown Heights.

My view of Manhattan from my cab.

Adventure One was tracking down my overnighted boxes.   Conveniently, the UPS store was across the street. After lugging two, cumbersome boxes back to the apartment, I found that the doorknob to my room was malfunctioning. In other words, I was locked out of my own personal shoebox.

But no worries. I’m in New York!

Adventure Two was a couple of miles away at a place called Havana Outpost. By the time I walked there, I quickly realized cowboy boots were not meant for concrete.  That was just fine because my foot pain was quickly assuaged by the smell of some good ol' Mexican cuisine. Call me "homesick" or call me "hungry"... both would apply, as I ordered up from their Mexican-Cuban menu. It wasn't the familiar TexMex, but the atmosphere was great. I enjoyed a nice cold, craft brew and people watched as the young crowd guzzled down margarita after margarita.

Finally, I made my way back to the apartment and met my new vegan roommate. Anyone else see the irony? He explained while demonstrating that you have to "quickly jiggle the knob" to open the door.

Brooklyn man, Brooklyn.

At long last, after a really long day, I settled into my shoebox-sized bedroom.  I didn’t sleep well that night, perhaps from the heat; however, it might have been my inner excitement of finally beginning my carnivorous journey.

Vaya con Dios

Let me paint you a little picture. A cluster of small Texas towns, all very Southern, none exceeding a population of 10,000.

New York city. An island with a population rounding at about eight and a half million.

This is the transition I just made. Well, Brooklyn. I’ve learned people are just as prideful here of their boroughs as Texas high schools are of their football teams.

So here I am, in Brooklyn.

I left Texas on the morning of the 18th. There were some hard goodbyes that day, specifically my Nana and my pup Remi. That one was really rough. In order to fund the next leg of my excursion, I needed some extra cash so I had to liquidate the Cadillac. I literally dropped it off, signed it over, and left for the airport.

Unabashed Plug:My buddy Wayne took very good care of me and if you are looking for a car in the near future, he is your guy over at Covert Buick GMC in Austin, Texas. 

Vaya con Dios

The farewell at the airport was my most difficult goodbye yet.

My mom.

There are no words to describe the unconditional love and support that this woman has given me. Not only did she support me throughout college, but she has helped more than she will ever know in my endeavor to become a butcher.

Heck, she planted the idea for the group project!

That woman would go for a week without eating if it mean that I could try as many new restaurants in New York just to educate my palate. My journey into this craft would not have happened without her. Walking away from her was difficult, but it was her gentle shove toward Brooklyn that sent me.

Now begins my journey.

Mystic Goat Roper

South Texas’, Benbow Ranch, is named for its former owner, Hugh Benbow, who for some strange reason erected a boxing gymnasium right-smack-dab in the middle of a 500-acre cattle ranch. Boxing fans will remember the highly touted World Heavy Weight boxing match in the late 1960s between Muhammed Ali and Big Cat Williams. Every sports fan knows the image: birds-eye-view from the Houston Astrodome of the Champ looking down on a sprawled out and defeated Cat. Anyway, ol’ Man Benbow trained “the Cat” at his ranch in DeWitt County. He charged 50 cents a head to all the locals who would come in the late afternoons to watch the Cat work. History says Big Cat Cleveland Williams was the hardest hitting boxer to ever live. In his autobiography, famed sportscaster, Howard Cossell, writes about flying into Yoakum, Texas to interview the Cat. Howard claimed the area to be so backward that he had to climb a pole just to access a telephone.

Well, backward or not, my mom ended up buying that ranch and raised my brother and I there. It is now covered in improved grasses with F1 cattle grazing among the live oak trees. Two huge stock tanks are perfect for fishing and the back woods is hunter paradise. In case you were wondering, the old boxing gym is still there.

Right-smack-dab in the middle.

If you were to come for a visit, you would find the big house at the end of a mile long drive way. There you would find Gary, longtime family friend and now ranch manager. Gary is in charge of the property and overseeing the pasture leases. He’s handy with a come-a-long and and hell on a mower. He literally mows two days a week and has the place looking like a damn golf course instead of a ranch. Did I mention Bossman, Mr. D, runs his cattle out there? More than once, Mr. D has jokingly mentioned re-negotiating the terms of his lease because Gary has mowed down all of the grazing.

Anyway, after graduation from TCU, I returned back to the Benbow for the summer. Gary, his wife, Kim, and their son Cason have made it three months to remember. There are stories upon stories of adventures we have shared. One includes Cason teaching me how to rope. He claimed it would only take him “two weeks if we practiced nightly." After the first lesson, he changed his mind and decided, “it might take a few weeks longer.” He succeeded, but only partially. He christened me "Mr. Goat Roper" however I heard,

"Mystic Goat Roper."

I think that sounds better anyway.

Everyday, I looked forward to my evenings back at the ranch with Gary and his family. I would get home around 6 and we would all head down to the barn to tend the horses and calves. For three hours, we did our daily barn chores: bringing in the Jersey cows, feeding the calves, haying the horses, mucking the stalls, and shootin’ the shit. Let me tell you, Gary can shoot the shit like no other. And when he is shootin’ the shit, he is usually rubbing his belly and overusing the word “brotha.” I’ve been told that my impersonation of him is spot on.

Bottle feeding calves is a daily chore on the ranch.

We’d wrap up around 9 and head back to the big house for supper. Thursday nights were my favorite because Gary cooked fajitas. Gary, Cason, and I would man the pit… and shoot the shit while Kim whipped up some guacamole.

Let me tell you, that man can cook some fajitas.

Now I’ve been off at college and I’m use to eating dinner between 6 and 8. Gary doesn’t even crank the stove until somewhere after 9. There have been nights when we have not started eating until after 11:30. When I questioned Gary about the late meal he always gave me one of three replies:

1. “It don’t matter what that little watch on your wrist says, brotha.”
2. Or, “I’m always working, it don’t matter the time.”
3. And my favorite, “Brotha, I don’t eat until my horses have eat.”

I head out to Brooklyn next week for the next leg of my journey.

Damn, I’m gonna miss that “brotha.”

Butter 'Em Up

There’s nothing quite like a good meal and a holiday to drop a bomb on the people you love. Easter weekend 2015 seemed the perfect time to tell the rest of the family about my future. Mom had kept my epiphany a secret, but Graduation was only three weeks away. I needed to butter ‘em up for this one.

So I grabbed some flank steaks and headed south. If you’re going to be judged for your decisions, you might as well be judged while handing out food. So standing in the kitchen, searing my pinwheels, I told them my plans.

This is the point in my life where it all began. I started receiving what can only be described as the

“you’re going to be a butcher?” look.

Yes. Yes I am. Any other comments?

No? Alright. Moving on.

I’ve gotten pretty damn accustomed to that look. It’s actually starting to grow on me.

We have an old family friend who I talked to at length that day. If I had to describe Gary, I’d say, “He has a heart of gold” and “The man can shoe a horse” (that means hard worker here in Texas). I told him about an apprenticeship I was putting together for the fall in New York with a craft butcher, but what the hell was I going to do until the fall?

Brotha Gary

So Gary starts talking about a friend of his who had a small meat monopoly in South Texas.

“He’s got the only gig around, brotha."

As a kid, I remembered my mom picking up fresh cut steaks from his meat market and when she put them in the oven, my brother and I would wait patiently with a loaf of bread ready to soak up the juices.

Sometimes life just comes full circle.

Gary told me he could get me on and soak up some juices in a whole other way.

So, why the hell not?