Once upon a time, if a Yorkville butcher looked favorably upon you and your meat order, he would throw in a free piece of skirt steak. Not anymore, it goes for $10 to $15 a pound. Here's a skirt steak related excerpt from my memoir,
"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."
“Tommy, get my bag,”
my grandmother barked. It was February 1965. I was 11.
“Oh, Christ,” I thought. Slowly,
I made my way through the railroad flat looking for Nan Rode’s pocketbook. It
weighed more than my little brother, and when I heaved the thing up, I imagined
Nan in the audience on Let’s Make A Deal, easily meeting Monty Hall’s challenge
to draw an Indian head penny out of the bag, or a 1928 Al Smith for President
pencil with Al’s head and big nose on the top (I still have that item).
I muscled the bag into the
kitchen. Nan wanted to give me money because it was Saturday, and Saturday
meant I was going shopping. Nan liked Schaller & Weber’s
frankfurters, Karl Ehmer’s pork chops and bologna, and Reliable Meats’ veal
cutlets. Plus, George at Reliable Meats on York Avenue would throw in a
half-pound of skirt steak if he was in a good mood.
Schaller & Weber was my first
stop, and there was always a major crowd there on Saturdays. I wanted to play
ball sometime that day, so I’d minimize my wait by getting there early. Nan had
specific shopping directions for each location. Schaller & Weber: “Make sure you see the guy’s
hands at all times. If they drop below the counter, and he comes up with
franks, tell him to put them back, and take the fresh ones out of the glass
display.”
I watched the guy’s hands like he
was a card cheat. And there he went… “Hey Mister, I don’t want those franks,
give me two pounds of these.” I pointed to the glass; the guy gave me a dirty
look and put the old franks back below the counter.
Next stop was Karl Ehmer’s. I
reviewed Nan’s instructions for that store: “Tell the guy to leave all the
fat on the pork chops.”
The Karl Ehmer butcher loved me.
I’d point out pork chops in the glass; he grabbed them and wrapped them in
paper. He never even had to pick up a trim knife.
After Ehmer’s, I walked down 85th
Street with five pounds of meat in paper bags. All the dogs I pass on the
sidewalk are looking at me funny and moaning. Halfway down the block, Nan’s
final direction pop into my head. “Make sure George pounds the
cutlets paper thin and throws in the skirt steak. Don’t forget the steak!”
George was a problem. He knew my
large grandparents bought lots of meat, but only bought part of their meat from
him. He wanted all their business. There was no way I’d bring the other meat
into his store -- he’d torture me – but I was too lazy to run it up to my
grandmother’s apartment one building away. So, I’d hide it outside the shop -- in
the gutter hugging the curb, in the basket of the delivery bike, or thrown up on
an awning. I had plenty of places to put it but they all had potential
consequences. Lots of kids and animals comb the gutter for goodies, and they
might pick it up and eat a frank right there. The delivery boy could slip by me
and take my meat for an unwanted ride. Up on the awning, pigeons could use the
bags for target practice, or I might not be able to find something to reach the
bags to get them down.
“Why you so antsy?” George asked.
“Huh?”
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.”
I was second on line, and George
was working alone. He was annoyed that I kept asking the lady behind me with
the baby to hold my place, while I checked on my hidden stash.
When it was my turn, George
leaned over the counter. I could smell his coffee and cigarette breath.
“No franks and chops today?”
He knew. He knew everyone’s meat
desires.
“No thank you, George, just the
cutlets. Please give them a good pounding. Nan said, nice and lean.”
He hit the meat like it was my
head. Then he put my stuff in a bag and eyed me over. I gave him a nod toward
the skirt steak with a pathetic look. He grudgingly wrapped a chunk in paper
and threw it in the bag.
On the way out, George shouted a
farewell.
“How long was the line at
Schaller & Weber’s?”
The hair on my neck stood up, but
I didn’t turn around. I began looking for something to knock my bags off the
Chinese Laundry’s awning.
******
Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,
"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at
Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.
The book has
121 Amazon five star reviews out of 121 total reviews posted. We're
pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's
"The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.
