THE BUTCHER CALLED

As we taxied on the tarmac in Fort Lauderdale excited about our eight-day sojourn, before even disembarking the plane, the butcher called. “Just thinking of you, you haven’t called for any stir-fry lately,” he sputtered with his South African accent.

I probably became a regular customer at our current butcher shop about 10 years ago when they willingly introduced a new line of cut-up chickens. That was after I asked for my chicken breasts to be cut into small pieces suitable for stir-fry. The butcher capitalized on the cut. I use the easy to sauté, marinade, bake or…well, stir-fry, at least on Fridays, and fancying a variety of recipes, often more than once a week.

Days before our excursion to Florida the power suddenly went out at our house prompting a quick outing to a deli, instead of our planned home-cooked chicken dinner. The following week, I would be basking in the sun, while my husband was attending a conference, and I was tagging along for some blissful warmth and a respite from the winter blues.

I should have called to inform the butcher of my schedule and the fact that I didn’t ditch him for the new kosher mart in the next town. It’s not only that I’m a loyal customer; I may even pay a little more for the personalized attention, which complements the quality of his cuts.

The butcher’s unexpected call reminded me of my parents complaining that their butcher would ask, “Where were you?” Then, boldly add, “I haven’t seen you lately, I thought you were in Florida,” a remark that would gnaw at them.

Even if the cajoling amounts only to the businessmen’s fear of the competition, to me their effort to keep their customers coming back is comforting. That’s why I simply thanked my butcher for his concern and said that I would be in for my usual order the following week.

In the 39 years since we’ve been living in our South Orange, New Jersey house, I cannot count on one hand how many times the local fish store has changed hands. It continues, however, to be freshly stocked daily from the South Street Seaport and still has my business, just as my former butcher had my business until the day he closed his doors for good.

Call me “old school.” Coming from a shtetl-like working-class neighborhood, where small “mom and pop” stores lined both sides of the main thoroughfare between Roselle and Linden, New Jersey, I still prefer my bread and pastries freshly baked at a private bakery over supermarket goods. I also shop at a three-generation family-owned hardware store, instead of the large chain warehouses.

Over the years, much has changed, yet much has stayed the same. For sure, my parents wouldn’t have been on a plane back then, and certainly wouldn’t have had a phone to receive a call when on the road. After any short absence, however, my parents would have been grilled (no pun intended) by their Yiddish-accented butcher. He probably would have remarked, “I thought you were in Florida...”

I can still picture the plump black cat lying stretched out on the wide sill, adjacent to the giant-sized window next to the entry door of the old butcher shop of my youth. It’s equally easy to imagine the brouhaha if the answer to the butcher’s baiting question had been “Yes! We just got back and you were our first stop.”