Dad, Grandpa and the Meat Market





I was a child of the 50’s. My hero’s pure Americana: Roy Rogers, Hop-A-Long Cassidy and the most famous plainsman of them all, Davy Crockett (though, I later learned his real name was Fess Parker). Ozzie and Harriet and the Cleaver’s were the proto-typical families of the day, fun to watch but for sure-fire advice on just about anything, there was no one better than Mr. Anderson of Father Knows Best. For love and infatuation, however, it was the Donna Reed Show. I was totally smitten with Shelly Fabares.
Ours was not a family that took vacations. Unlike those on television, this household consisted of my younger sister, brother and dad. An early split had left us a single parent family- not exactly the norm for the day.
Dad owned a meat market and I worked there. Grandpa worked there too, keeping the display coolers full of cold cuts, cheeses and occasionally selling a pack of cigarettes to neighborhood thugs. A gentleman of propriety, gramps always tied an apron high above his waist so that he would not dirty the white silk shirt and tie that he wore to work everyday. Neatly draped on a hat stand, his double-breasted suit jacket; perched on top, a coordinating homburg.
An old man then with a pronounced limp, he walked with a cane. Made of ebony wood, it was collared with an in-laid ivory ring. The grip was hand carved in the likeness of an eagle’s head with a nasty, down-turned beak. I felt that, more than once, when he thought it necessary to rap me on the head. Not that I could blame him since I would, sort of, re-locate it. Most of the time though, gramps would sit in his chair, gently rocking while holding me on his lap. I remember the scent of Sen-Sen on his breath, used to cover up the stronger odor of the Parodi cigars he favored. On his left hand, he wore his wedding band but, on his right, oh my, sat the two most beautiful diamond rings that I had ever seen. The pinky sported a solitaire stone while, on the other, a flat-topped diamond crusted beauty made rainbows appear whenever the sunlight caught it.
My main job, when I wasn’t sweeping sawdust on the hardwood floor, was to make short-run deliveries to restaurants, taverns and neighborhood residents. To do this, we had a bicycle that was uniquely suited to the task. The front wheel was smaller than the rear, hugging the pavement, which always brought a snicker from passers-by. This was necessary due to the size of its wire basket. I mean to tell you that this sucker was huge. In one trip, I could deliver to about a half dozen places bringing them their various cuts of meat, poultry and assorted groceries. The trick, of course, was to be able to do this without upending the bike along the way. One spill and the contents became dinner for every stray cat that prowled the alleyways.
My tasks were not solely limited to bike rides. As I grew older, I was expected to work the production end of the business as well. By the time I was 11, I could handle a boning knife; at 12 I had the scars to show for it. But, it was the machinery that held my fascination. Like a moth drawn to the flame, I watched, in utter amazement, as dad eased his way around, each one for a specific purpose. The Grinder, for hamburger and sausage, could rip an arm right off if you weren’t careful (I saw that happen once). The Patty machine for making hamburger patties…WATCH OUT! You’ll lose a finger! The Band Saw, now there was a machine that taught you respect. A flip of the switch and that monster roared to life. The noise, a beastly, high-pitched whine, was almost deafening as its razor sharp teeth cut into the ribs of pork loins and beef. You sit at a dinner table and see a pork chop or T-bone steak. I sit at the same table and see how it got there.
However, for all of its subtlety, nothing was more mesmerizing than the Cube Steak machine, or meat tenderizer. Operating it was easy enough. You feed the meat into the slotted chute at the top so that the twin multi-bladed rollers would grab and perforate it, passing it on through to the opening at the bottom. A perfectionist, and not liking the finished product, dad would throw open the cover plate, finger-feed the meat directly into the meshing blades and catch it within the palm of his other hand just before it would fall completely out. He would tell me that he could make a much better product this way but was always mindful of the fact that he could shred his fingers if he wasn’t careful.
Dad may have been careful but he wasn’t always patient, especially with me. I was already adept at working much of the machinery but had always kept my distance from the band saw and the cuber. Dad saw this as the next stage of my development and insisted on instructing me in the ways of making the perfect cube steak. I didn’t fear feeding the meat into the blades but raising my fingers up into that bottom opening…no way! Because I was afraid, dad placed his open palm up against the rotating blades. Nothing! No blood, no ripping or tearing of the flesh! The blades were blunt and moved in a counter direction, he explained. With no prodding, I did the same. It tickled! I laughed. He smiled. We bonded. A few attempts, however, at catching the meat, soured the moment. “Frankie”, he barked, “turn your hand so that the side catches the meat and compacts it into shape as it drops into your hand.” I froze. “Frankie! Catch the meat!” I stood there, looking down as I tentatively moved my hand towards the bottom opening. I didn’t even notice that dad had wrapped his hand around my wrist and thrust my hand forward. I recoiled, watching the middle and ring fingers of my left hand disappear upwards into that machine. Blunt as those blades were, they shredded and splayed open the tender flesh.
Even now, some 40 years later, I can still remember 10 stitches in the middle finger and 11 in the other. A year later, I was to lose the top half of the middle- “WATCH OUT! You’ll lose a finger-“ 14 stitches across the top of that one. The 50’s had come to a close as my childhood came to an end.