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.”

Green-hand Gringo

My second day on the job was just like anyone else’s in the corporate world. I was given the standard-issue office supplies and equipment:

• Scabbard
• Honing steel
• 6 inch boning knife
• 5 inch skinning knife
• Cut-resistant (not cut proof) gloves
• Water-resistant apron
• Hardhat

Mingling with my new coworkers and conversing mostly through hand signs and broken Spanish, I tried to fit in as best I could. None of the regulars were wearing their issued gloves so I quickly ditched the cut resistant gauntlets and moved into “blend in” mode. Let’s be honest with ourselves, our greatest human instinct is to fit in. Who doesn’t want to fit in? If he jumped off a cliff, would you?

Next came the heavy equipment. I got a quick lesson in band saws and single-trees and believe me when I say that hoisting a carcass on a lift can be just as difficult as fixing a broken copy machine. I’m sure of it.

By afternoon, I had pretty much figured out the workflow – more like a dysfunctional assembly line. There was hollering and unnecessary altercations, all in Spanish. Needless to say, six college semesters of Spanish as a foreign language did not prepare me for what I was hearing on that processing floor.

Corporate Break Room: hardhats, knives, Mexican flag, and Lucha Libre

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT TO FOLLOW

The workflow goes something like this:

• Before the carcass gets to me, it is drained of most of its blood, the ears, horns and front hooves.
• The sternum is then cut so the carcass can be readied for clean out.
• It is then strung up on an overhead pulley called a "single tree" for gutting.

Sidenote: I want to point out here that all of the by-products such as blood, intestines, and bones are an important part of the meat packing industry. It’s a tough business to be in, and anything that can turn a profit is used. Personally, I like that nothing is wasted. This is the way our ancestors provided for themselves. Each animal’s life is sacred, and we honor that by using every piece and part of it.

• Next is capping. Capping is the process of removing the hide from the carcass. Everything about the capping process has to do with technique and on day two I certainly didn’t have the technique … but Primo did. I worked along side Primo watching him skin from tail to neck in a quick 25 seconds. He made it look like slicing soft butter. When it was my turn it took me over two minutes. In my defense, I wanted to go slow and make sure I didn’t cut any holes in the hide because holes mean less money from the hide man. And besides, who wants to cost their boss anymore than they have to?

In case you were wondering, I’m now just as fast as Primo.

• Once you’ve removed the hide, the only part left is to remove the tail. This process is left for green-hand gringos, so I was the man for the job. Once again, if you know the technique it’s easy. If not, you’ll be hacking at bone for three hours. Finally, the carcass is split, washed, and placed in the cooler.

• After the harvesting process, Jefe and I would head out to the hide house. I quickly learned to dread this stage of the process. Working in 105-degree heat inside a raggedy old barn that has a 96% chance of collapsing on top of you isn’t my idea of a day in the park. We would pick fresh-skinned hides up and sling them so that they were spread out on the ground of the barn and then salt them down for preservation. This “hide slinging” is a technique I have yet to master. I’m 6’2” and there were moments where I would be holding a hide above my head, arms shaking from the weight, and I would still be tripping over a hide dragging between my feet.

Salted hides in the Hide House

Then we would salt the hides to take out the moisture and preserve them. After washing up, we would head back to the plant to help work the meat market until the end of the day.

So in review, my new job was just like every other graduate's in the corporate world.

Shell Station Burgers

My instructions were to be at the plant by 9:00 am. I was there 10 minutes early (because mama raised me right) so I walked in looking for Mr. D.

“Excuse me, sir? I’m looking for a Mr. D."

“I’m Mr. D."

“Hi. My name is Jack Matusek. We spoke on the phone."

“I didn’t talk to you on the phone."

What do you say to that? Yeah you did. I remember. I was there.

After much awkwardness, I realized I was talking to ‘ol Mr. D. The Mr. D I was looking for I found on the phone in the back office with a pair of readers perched on his forehead and an old ball-cap cock-eyed to the side. Beside him, was another, but younger, Mr. D.

Yep, three generations.

Looking back now, I’m sure Mr. D thought he was hung with baby-sitting some city-college-boy for the summer. To get me out of his hair, my first task was a trip to the feedlot to pick up a trailer load of cattle. When I got back, I headed out with him to the local sale barn for my first lesson with the boss man.

Now let me tell you, there is a certain hierarchy and protocol at cattle auctions. The man who buys beef for half of South Texas sits front row and middle. Next to him is his good buddy, Mr. Jakeburger. Obviously, green hands are not allowed on the front row with Mr. D and Mr. Jakeburger so I took a spot a few rows back.

To be quite honest I didn’t know what the hell was going on. It took me a while to translate what the auctioneer was spewing and to cypher the code on the cow’s back hip. I knew one thing, no matter where you did your 4 years of college no degree could prepare you for this.

I have been around cattle my entire life. Hell, I was born on a ranch. But I never truly embraced it. All I could think about growing up was getting the hell out of Small-Town, Texas. I never would have believed after 4  years of college I would be back were I started, driving in a dually, looking at cattle, and liking it.

I’ve learned that no one has a sense of humor quite like God.

Three hours and 300 head later Mr. D and I headed out with the promise of treating me to the best burger in town.

"They’re the best because they use our patties."

But I will say, no bias involved, that Shell Station beats any of the seven restaurants in that town any day of the week.

When we got back to the plant, Mr. D handed me a jacket and a hard hat and sent me to observe the kill-floor.

I know there are preconceived notions regarding meat markets and kill floors, and I will say that mine looked like a scene from a horror movie. I was surprised to find that it was nothing like that.

I sat up on a platform with Flacco and he explained the facts of life to me.

“Cows come in, carcasses come out."

Feeling a little queasy meat eater? Where did you think that steak came from?

At the end of the day I realized that I had a lot to learn, and I was excited about the adventure that was ahead. I asked Bossman what time everyone got there and he told me they showed up at 7:30 and worked like red blooded, blue collared, American men until 5:30.

In order to lose the “new guy/city-slicker” nametag, I needed to assimilate quickly, so I figured working the same hours as everyone else would be a good place to start.

And you thought waking up for an 8AM class was hard…