Like Cocaine in the '80's

Continued from Part 1… Are you kidding me, Hell yeah, I’m going.

Jason, Anderson, and Josh (three butchers I work with) and Sophie, all jumped into a car and headed to North Brooklyn. The drive gave me time to get to know everyone better. As I mentioned before, Jason was a criminal defense attorney. He took a sabbatical from work two years ago and enrolled in the Fleisher’s apprenticeship. His boss told him that he would never come back to the legal world. He was right. Jason loves the stress free life and the opportunity to do something he loves. As he puts it,

"I get to cut some of the best meat, stop and drink coffee when I want, grab a few drinks when I want… stress free."

As I told him my story and sudden career turn around, he mentioned how many of his “corporate world” friends where making that same choice.

"They’re jumping into the “craft” world – opening cheese factories, butcher shops, or wineries."

Affirmation: good.

Jason Yang working on the bandsaw.

We began talking about good restaurants in the area, our favorite chefs, and other butcher - foodie related topics. We even discussed my favorite chef Francis Mallmann. (By the way, Francis, if you’re reading this, call me man. I would kill to work with you.) In that moment, in a car in Brooklyn with a bunch of butchers, I realized this was truly my element. I was finally surrounded by like-minded guys and I friggin’ loved it. New York had been so foreign to me for the past few days, but rollin’ with the Fleisher’s crew, felt like home.

So we arrive at Roberta’s Pizza in Williamsburg, which, according to Sophie, was the hipster joint that started the hipster movement that brought Williamsburg back to life. Roberta’s is so hip it doesn’t even have an outdoor sign to identify itself.

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As we were walking in, I could tell Sophie was on Cloud 9. She was rollin’ with the craft butcher clan of which I hadn’t come to fully appreciate in its entirety. I was happy just to be along for the ride and not having to sit back at the apartment and entertain the hairless cat.

In the back party garden there was a small gathering of people. Everyone was there to celebrate the opening of Heritage Radio Network’s new website. HRN is a foodie radio station in New York, because, why not?

Have I mentioned how cool this place is?

Jason bought us a round of 6 Point Sweet Actions and we got in the food line for… pulled pork sandwiches…?

I’m so confused. I thought we were at Roberta’s Pizza.

Where’s the pizza guys…?

I mean, I’m gonna eat either way, but I’m a little disappointed that this is Roberta’s Pizza and there’s no pizza.

Then I took a bite.

Holy. Shit.

It took everything I had not to flip out over what I had just tasted. I wanted to play it cool and not show my green hand, but thankfully from the look on Jason’s face, I wasn’t the only one stunned by the amazing pork sandwich. I'd never had one with cilantro before and the house-made sauce was ridiculous.

Roberta's pulled pork sandwich with a side of Caesar salad packaged for the go

We grabbed a few more brews after we finished drooling over our non-pizza and mingled with the rest of the gathering crowd. It was about this time that I started to realize how popular craft butchery was. Everyone was treating Jason like a celebrity. Not only does Jason take apprentices for three-month stints, but he also conducts intro-butchery classes on the weekends so all of his former-student/fans were pouring accolades. I commented to the Fleisher’s crew about Jason’s semi-celebrity status and how relieved I was to be surrounded by people who got this whole meat thing. The comment I got back assured me,

"You came to the right place. Butchers in Brooklyn are as big as cocaine was back in the 80’s. You guys are like rock stars."

Well okay then.

I know without a doubt, I have chosen the perfect profession. It was a long road to come to this conclusion, but God truly had his hand on me and guided me to where I am now.

I truly am blessed.

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."

Year of the Cow

On any given Saturday morning in the early 90’s, you could find most kids watching cartoons. Not me.

I'd be curled up in chair with some book in my hands.

Yep, I was one of those anomalies known as a “young reader.” Don’t get me wrong, I did watch TV, but it was mostly the History Channel (an obvious foreshadowing of my college degree).

Not a whole lot has changed. I still love to read and seeing as I have so much time on public transportation here in Brooklyn, I’ve gotten the opportunity to dive into other people stories.

When I first decided to pursue craft butchery, I knew I needed to build my knowledge on the topic. What better way to learn than to start collecting books? My mother contributed an awesome stack on butchery basics and my grandmother has stashed her life’s collection of cookbooks away for me. There are so many books I’m positive my soon-to-be-accountant brother couldn’t keep track.

I’ve read a few here and there, but between working all summer and moving across the country, I haven’t had a huge opportunity to pick through them.

There is one, however, that has made quite an impact on me.

Year of the Cow, by Jared Stone.  It was given to me on my birthday by my good friend Mamie B. At the time, I was in the middle of another read, so I packed it for my Brooklyn journey to flick through on my morning commutes to the processing facility.  Year of the Cow is the documentary of a television producer in LA who bought an entire butchered, grass-fed steer. He proceeded to feed it to his family over the course of two years.

You might ask, why? The answer is simple.

He was curious.

He wanted to know more about where his food was coming from and what he was actually feeding his family every evening for dinner. The book documents his experiences as he feeds his family the entire steer. Nose to tail. No skipsies. What makes the book even more awesome? He includes recipes at the end of every chapter. So if you’re wondering how to cook a cow tongue, look no further.

Year of the Cow was obviously relevant to me, but it also appeals to a mainstream audience as well.  Everyone who consumes food and is curious about their food origins would find this book both entertaining and insightful. The diet Stone adopted in his two year exploit hit me as odd; however after he explained the true origins of basic kitchen staples, I found myself starting to question and shift my diet for the better.

So here's the deal: I’m going to take it slowly and be conscious of what I am consuming.  I want to try to cut out all sugar. The key word here is "try",  because honestly, this  Texas boy loves sweet iced-tea and his mama’s three-berry cobbler. But I am going to cut back. 

Overall, Jared Stone's carnivorous tale of a family bond created over a steer is a good read for foodies.  It is a must read for the food-sourced conscious coterie.

Not a bad read to start my year of the cow.

13th Step to Manhattan

If I could pick one word to describe my first 48 hours in the city, it would be "explore."

explore [ik-splohr] (verb): to traverse or range over (a region, area, etc.) for the purpose of discovery.

I’ve about nailed that.

My second day started off with lunch at the highly recommended, Shake Shack. I had heard great things about this place, so I was eager to try it.  I found one close to my apartment so I decided to hoof it.

Mistake number one.

By the time I got there I was dripping in sweat and starving. That being said, I was disappointed in the proportion of the meal. The flavor wasn’t lacking, but I could have used more of it.

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After I got a portion of my fill, I decided that it was time to do some blogging. Deadlines. I posted up outside the Starbucks in the plaza of Barclays Center and started documenting. I received calls from Brotha Gary and Mr. D who were both worried sick about me. They’re in agreement that I’m going to get mugged, so I do my best to keep them updated on my safety.

To be honest, I think the cowboy hat deters the undesirables.

But with that cowboy hat comes a deep love of Texas football. And I knew I was going to need some that night. I made plans to attend a TCU Watch Party (Go Frogs) at a bar in the East Village called the 13th Step.

Leaving early to give me time for exploring Manhattan, I purchased a subway pass and with little difficulty, navigated my way to the Lower East side. I wandered to the New Museum of Contemporary Arts, which is constructed like a stack of children’s building blocks that weren’t quite aligned. The art there is truly amazing, but I’ll tell you something else, the view of the skyline from the roof can hold it’s own.

The New Museum for Contemporary Arts

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Afterwards, I found myself at the Museum of the American Gangster. A little unsure of the museum due to it’s location in an old apartment, it turned out to be quite entertaining and educational. The apartment once was the headquarters for an East Village mob. Underneath the apartment, the mob had their own speakeasy and system of tunnels for running alcohol during the prohibition years. Apparently while in a hurry to escape town, the mob boss left two bolted safes with stacks of cash. The butcher left in charge of the speakeasy….

Yeah, what a coincidence…

was afraid to touch the safes. Finally in 1964, he opened them. Most of the money had been pilfered, but about $2 million was left wrapped in newspapers form the 1940’s. Not too shabby for 1964.

My tour guide informed me that speakeasies were still a popular place for people to frequent and there were quite a few in the area.

Sold.

I went to check out Please Don’t Tell, located inside Crif Dogs, a hotdog restaurant. In order to gain entry, you go inside a telephone booth that sits in a back corner. A hidden door inside the booth leads to the speakeasy. Unfortunately for me, this place has gotten so popular that you need a reservation to get in, so I opted for a Crif dog instead.

Finally it was time to get back to my Texas roots and watch some Horned Frog football.  I met a few TCU alums, had a few beers, and had a great time. The Frogs even pulled out a W.

Let’s just say, not a bad night for a cowboy in Brooklyn.

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.