A wide counter divided my Dad’s Butcher shop – between the ‘customer’ or ’service’ side, and the ‘working’ side. All floors were covered in sawdust to catch any blood drips – even the front section, because Dad would carry selected cuts of meat from the front display window to weigh and wrap for the customer. But the ‘working’ section had a particularly thick layer, as the jointing, cutting and slicing undertaken in this area could result in more serious ‘drip’ absorbency.
Hidden beneath the counter on this side, were shelves containing all manner of important things, like – a pile of pre-cut white paper and greaseproof sheets, sticky tape for securing the meat parcels, order books and docket books, and all kinds of extras required for fast and efficient refurbishing of the wrapping paper atop the counter.
Along one wall was another display of numerous trays of meat cuts, with a large tilted mirror to reflect all sides clearly – and lighting that was NOT coloured like today – simply used for the best illumination of the product. And in a huge ‘U’ shape, running around three sides, was a rail suspended from the ceiling to hold strong ‘S’ hooks, with large sections of meat hanging from them, so the customer could choose the size he required, and be guaranteed freshness.
In one back corner there was a cold room with a large barred door – and here the whole bodies of meat would be hanging, again from a rail and hooks – ready to be jointed into more manageable sizes – and once again, stored in as large pieces as possible. to ensure the best quality product. There was a side door to this part of the shop, and it opened to our driveway, enabling delivery of bodies of meat directly from the refrigerated delivery van into the cold room at any time. The delivery men would wear a wheat bag (slit open down one side) over their heads and shoulders to protect them and their clothing from unwanted stains and greasiness. When their were such things as ’strikes’ on, my Dad would have to don one of these to unload his own meat himself – when the drivers themselves were not ‘out’ as well. Then he had to pick up the meat from the distributor himself apparently – I was too young to have knowledge of this bit.
The major source of pride for my Dad was his prized chopping block. What an amazing tree this block must have started its life from – one solid block of wood, not much less than a metre square, firmly attached to four sturdy wooden legs on its corners. The timber used must have been tough, (maybe Jarrah or Ramin) because it was quite rarely that the scarring of the knives and choppers dictated a light sanding – and a daily salt scrub was all that was required to keep it sterilised. I cannot remember any oiling of the block – guess the fat trimming of the meat saw to the potential ‘drying out’ problem – naturally.
Watching Dad convert a loin of lamb into chops was to see ‘poetry in motion’. A strange turn of phrase, you may think, as applied to butchery. BUT – the chopper would flash from nearly his head level, to unerringly part each chop at exactly the correct spot of the joint, as fast as counting seconds – truly! And his other hand moving backwards, JUST in time to avoid amputation. A testament to his skill was that he still had 10 complete fingers at the end of his life – what else can I say?
And down below, under a lift-up trapdoor and at the bottom of a small steep flight of stairs, a sinister place called ‘The Pickling Cellar’ existed. In this ‘dismal dungeon’ was a huge Oak vat, filled with a pickling solution of unknown content (to me!) – but apparently a combination of Butchers pickling brine – Butcher Salt (pure, coarsely ground crystals, curing salts containing nitrates, Sugar, Saltpetre, Bay leaves – for 3-4 days. Most pieces of meat to be pickled, required the use of a brine injection pump which forced the brine into numerous places and alongside bones.
The pickled meats curing in here had a gruesome appearance – a kind of pinkish/grey – in all manner of strange shapes and sizes. It did cross my juvenile and fertile imagination that it would be a great repository for Mafia-style ‘disposals’. Oh-h-h-h, Yuk! To imagine my gentle ‘gentleman’ Dad involved in any nefarious activities would be like asking, “Is Crocodile Dundee, Chinese?”
And at the very back of this work area, was a short flight of steps that led to the Office for the shop, and a door out of there led into our house. A handy access for me coming home from school – but actually not designed specifically for me – Oh!
No, this actually enabled Dad to be able to do all his bookwork, not SO removed from his beloved family – and also for Mum to be able to assess when was a good time to call him for a meal, and also to assess if he was needing her help, serving the customers and taking advantage of a little ‘gossip’ time, as well.
Those were the days, my friend. We thought they’d never end!
© 2011 Christine Larsen All Rights Reserved
Like to see a picture of part of the veranda of the actual shop? The focus was actually on the ‘cherub’ in the forefront – the apple of her parents’ eye – but that is the shop in the background.
My Life in ‘Interesting’ Times
Included is a photo of A Few Good Men – my Dad and my two brothers. There will soon be a link to a Squidoo article I’m planning, totally about my Father, with pictures. I will add this as soon as it is ‘published’.
If you can’t get enough of stories of this decade, have a look at other articles of mine where the title starts with ‘The Nifty Fifties’.
Gerritsen en Van Riessen gehuldigd in HHH