Packin' Pork

All I have been talking about for the last three months is how good the pasture-raised pork is from Fleishers.

• How it tastes like pork is suppose to taste.
• How breeders are breeding the fat back in after the anti-fat stigma of the 70s.
• How modern farmers are raising these animals on open range and supplementing their diets with tubers and apples.

So the family mandate was in. They wanted me to put up or shut up. Mom had scheduled a tamale making class for when I got home so I thought it would be perfect timing if I packed some pork back to Texas for Christmas tamales. Just one small problem, well, actually one big problem, how was I going to get all of my belongings and the pork packed in my suitcase?

I never got rid of the boxes I originally shipped my stuff up to New York in. They actually turned out to be multi-purpose, standing in as chest-of-drawers, a nightstand and a dining table. So flipping the boxes upright, I crammed in all of my earthly processions: espresso machine, cook books, cutting boards, boots and bedding and shipped them back to Texas via the neighborhood UPS store. That left me with my carry-on for the plane and one 55lb. box of pork as checked baggage.

Let me pause here to itemize the contents of my checked baggage: two 13 lb. Boston butts, four Frenched pork chops cut 1” thick, and one large hog’s head perfect for tamales.

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They say a picture is worth a thousand words so I wish I had one to show you here, but I don’t. Just try to picture this scene in your head if you will:

I sauntered up to LaGuardia’s Southwest Airlines check-in and presented my documents for boarding. I then hoisted my box of pork onto the luggage scales and waited for my baggage claim check. It was at this point that Miss LaGuardia informed me that I must use "Southwest Airline approved boxes" for my belongings. Ok, no problem. So there on the spot I begin to unpack and transfer my pork to the approved shipping box.

Lets just say that Miss LaGuardia’s eyes moved to “alert” status when the lovely pink chops surfaced. By the time I was transferring the hog’s head, she was on full "Silence of the Lambs” alert. But the best part was when I reached down and grabbed my knife roll, looked up at her and said,

Ma'am, I’m a butcher and I am going to pull out my knives now.

I just wanted to let you know.

After a gasp then a pregnant pause, her relieved expression showed she now comprehended that indeed I was not Hannibal Lector, but an actual butcher. With the color returning to her face, Miss LaGuardia waved off security and finally handed me my baggage claim check. (Something tells me she is going to let the next guy in line slide with his cardboard boxes.)

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My flight from LaGuardia to Chicago was easy, but the last leg into Austin seemed like it would never end. I was more than ready to be home, so I pre-maturely unbuckled “before the plane had come to a full and complete stop.” I grabbed my carry-on and quickly located my pork box at baggage claim. As I went to the outside curb for pick up, I spotted the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. There she was. Waiting curbside for me. Black hair, black eyes and fluorescent hunting collar. I dropped everything as my Remi ran to me for a good ear scratchin’ and face lick.

Home, sweet home.

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Final Note: I’m back in Texas for a bit to re-group and plan my next leg of my carnivorous journey. In the meantime, I will be holding some jerky and sausage making classes. If you are interested, send me a message in the “contact me” section.

I hope everyone has a Merry Christmas and eats well this holiday season. I sure will!

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.

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.

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.