European Meats Story
Scene: European Meats, a large butcher shop in Kensington Market, Toronto. A short, silver-haired man in a flat cap examines a tray of very smoked meats I am too far away to identify. The woman behind the counter prompts him to pick one.
“One that is good for an old man,” he says, his tone equal measures of plaintive and demanding.
She points to one.
“One that is good for an old man!” he repeats.
Despite his vague critera, she finally points to one he approves of.
“Remember my face,” he tells her, “Next time when I come in, you can give me a good one.”
I wonder if I will get to an age where something will click in my brain, and I will decide that I am within my rights to hassle the meat ladies. Or maybe it only works if I’m Eastern European.
The thing is, there are a bunch of old guys who frequent European Meats and want to feel they're getting special treatment. Memorizing their faces won’t do much good, because they all strongly resemble one another.