The Vocal Local

The Butcher

(Broadcast - 3/9/19 on 5THE FM 107.7)

The recent return of a butcher shop to Millicent is deeply appreciated, particularly by older townspeople. Many of us knew nothing but specialised shops way before supermarkets and they hold special memories for us – especially those who came from a butchering family – like myself.

I thought you may enjoy a trip down memory lane with a chapter from my slowly progressing memoir – 'Flourishing in the Fifties'. This chapter is specifically about the neighbourhood butcher shop. It's called -

Purveyors of Quality Meat

My Dad came from a proud line of Master Butchers - as the title of this chapter promises, his shop's signage boldly declaring –

'GRAHAM'S MEAT SERVICE- Quality at Lower Prices'

This was the pledge of yesterday; the tradition I grew up with in the 1950's. The craft of butchering has changed beyond recognition, and butcher shops are sadly becoming increasingly rare.

Today's large supermarkets have deli-bars and chilled meat sections stacked with conveniently packaged trays of hygienically wrapped and hermetically sealed meats. The butchers and their work area are hidden from view (if still there at all) due to all the pre-prepared and packed meats. Hard to imagine the old-time butcher shop; its laid-back service and charm; caring service and attention to detail AND customers' specific wishes.

Typical of its day, Dad's shop-front had a mosaic tiled wall beneath its large glass display window. The same proud message adorned the glass and a small, set back step-up provided entrance into a roomy space for customers, enabling perusal of the window display as they politely waited for individual service at the neatly organised counter. This divided Dad's butcher shop between the 'customer' side and the 'working' side, with the floors of each covered in sawdust to catch any blood drips as Dad carried meats from the front display window to weigh and wrap for the customer. In Japanese gardens, coarse sand and fine pebbles are raked to make symbolic shapes, patterns and designs to define their world and their spirituality. In South Australia, in the 1950's, one butcher's youngest daughter took great pride in raking the sawdust covering her Dad's shop floor, to reinforce his respect and care of his customers.

The young Christine's deepest satisfaction came from the perfectly even and artistic patterns created whilst walking backwards so no footprints spoiled her designs. Diamonds, swirls, chequer-board - ALL patterns were possible - limited only by her imagination. She revelled in her father's hearty approval. "Great job tonight," he'd say with admiration. "Where on earth did you get that pattern from?" And he'd hug her to his side, saying "You're such a little trimmer."

A service counter divided the public and working area as customers established their dinner plans. "What would you recommend Mr. Graham?" and "What's on special this week, Wal?" and "I'm thinking maybe something to roast tonight. We're having visitors. Help me... you're the expert." Dad would field all questions, make suggestions and recommendations on the cut and often the cooking method as well. Time then for his large trusty scales to play their part as the meat was placed on greaseproof paper and checked against the customer's wishes and approval.

An elaborately patterned antique silver National cash register dominated the counter with its truly majestic appearance. This grand machine cleverly calculated the sum of all the purchases, multiplied their individual weights and displayed the total in pop-up tabs in the 'window' at the top of the machine, with a cheerful 'ding' of its bell. No messages of how much change to give in those days, as all who served the public had unerring mathematical knowhow. The customer's record would be scribbled on the white wrapping paper with a trusty pencil that spent its life tucked behind Dad's ear. The customer paid and a pull of the cash register handle opened the money drawer. It was important to NEVER forget the size and bulk AND weight of this drawer when it 'sprung open' - one collision was usually adequate to force the intelligent choice to never forget that hasty sideways step. But what a treasure trove when this drawer opened to reveal numerous compartments for all the denonimations of cash and dockets and orders. In quieter times, Dad dealt with the finances as well as the butchering, but when the busier days, like Fridays happened, Mum took over, taking the money and doling out change and conversation with the locals.

In the past, the working side of the shop was on full view to the public. Unimaginable not to have the customer's input and supervision of selection, chopping and slicing of the chosen cuts - not to mention the absolute necessity of watching the actual weighing of that focus of the family meal - the meat.

A major source of pride was Dad's grand old chopping block. What an amazing tree must have given birth to this one solid block of wood, a metre square, firmly planted on four sturdy wooden legs. Tough timber indeed. Jarrah maybe - or Ramin, because it only occasionally needed a light sanding to remove the scarring from the ultra-sharp knives and chopper Dad always carried in his knife belt. A daily salt scrub kept it sterilised. Can't remember oiling of the block - maybe all the trimming of fat off the meat solved the potential 'drying out' problem naturally.

To see my Dad converting a loin of lamb into chops was to watch poetry in motion. A strange turn of phrase perhaps, as applied to butchery. BUT - his chopper would flash high above his head to unerringly part each chop at exactly the correct spot of the joint, as fast as counting seconds, with his other hand moving backwards, JUST in time to avoid amputation. At the end of his life he still had 10 complete fingers - a testament to his skill.

One wall displayed trays of meat cuts below a large tilted mirror to fully reflect them. No coloured lighting like today's to put the healthiest glow on the meat. Yesterday, it simply gave the best illumination of the natural product. In a huge 'U' shape, running around three walls, a rail suspended from the ceiling held strong 'S' hooks. Large sections of meat were hung for guaranteed freshness and the customer's choice of size and weight to be cut.

In the back corner a large barred door gave access to the cold room, where entire bodies of meat hung from rail and hooks, awaiting jointing into more manageable sizes. A side door to our driveway, enabled transfer of the meat directly from refrigerated delivery vans without disturbing the customers. The delivery men wore hessian wheat bags (slit open down one side) over their heads and shoulders for protection from unwanted stains and greasiness.

A lift-up trapdoor behind the chopping block revealed a small flight of stairs down to a sinister place called 'The Pickling Cellar'. A huge Oak vat filled with pickling solution dominated the room. A butcher's pickling brine contained pure, coarsely ground crystals of curing salts containing nitrates, Sugar, Saltpetre and Bay leaves . Most rolls and pieces of meat required the use of a brine injection pump to force the solution evenly throughout the meat and alongside the bones. These were left to float around (and be rolled over twice a day) for 3-4 days. These curing cuts had a gruesome appearance - pinkish/grey pieces of bizarre shapes and sizes. My juvenile and fertile imagination saw the potential repository for Mafia-style disposals. To imagine my gentle 'gentleman' Dad involved in any nefarious activities makes me smile, to this day.

The work area ended with a short flight of steps leading to the Office, with another door leading into our house. Such a handy access for me coming home from school, although not actually designed specifically for that purpose, amazingly enough (or so I thought!). It actually enabled Dad's to do his weeknight bookwork not SO removed from his beloved family - and for Mum to be able to assess the best time to call him for a meal. And during opening hours, it was so convenient if he needed Mum to help serve the customers at busy times.

If she could take advantage of a little catch-up on the local gossip at the same time, 'all was well and good'.

Not so strangely perhaps, the words of a song fill my mind –

Those were the days, my friend

We thought they'd never end.

(0:9:30 mins.)