mr martino
There's an Italian butcher near here, Mr. Martino, who Allison visits on occasional grocery trips. Mr. Martino is 87. He's had a stroke and a heart attack, but he still comes to work every day with a big sweet smile on his face. Because of the stroke, it's hard to understand what he says. And either because of the stroke, or some spinal fusion surgery, he can't really move his neck, so when he turns to look or speak he has to move his whole body. He's a little guy. But just so alive. There are all kinds of pictures and signs and trophies and things in his shop that he's collected over the years; it's a small place but you can really look around and see the entire history of him, his family, his business. I never know what the hell he's talking about, but I love Mr. Martino.
Anyway what really tickled me the other day is that Al and I went into his shop to get some steaks and sausage (he makes some awesome sausage). He was having his afternoon Sambuca. So he told the guy assisting him (who's worked there for years) to offer us some Sambuca. So we have Sambuca while we discuss how thick we want the steaks. Then, before the guy cuts the steaks, he goes away and comes back with two mugs of beer. So we stand there and drink our beer and listen to Mr. Martino tell stories (which I don't understand but I guess Al's had more practice) while we wait for the steaks. Then they're ringing us up and give us another shot of Sambuca. Mr. Martino's rattling off with a big grin on his face about whatever he's telling us, the whole while.
So finally, twenty or so minutes later, we say a fond farewell and weave our drunken way out of the butcher shop.
Some time ago we were at a dinner party in the Bronx, at an amazing Italian restaurant. One of the guys who was there, a Jewish guy (but he passes easy for Italian!) was lamenting the loss of the Italian neighborhoods in the Bronx and in Manhattan. He said they're really, really shrinking and it's hard to find good Italian shops now, where there once were a million.
I just think, there aren't a lot of actual butchershops left anywhere -- let alone, ones that have been around for fifty years, where they cut your steaks to order and drink with you while you wait.
Anyway what really tickled me the other day is that Al and I went into his shop to get some steaks and sausage (he makes some awesome sausage). He was having his afternoon Sambuca. So he told the guy assisting him (who's worked there for years) to offer us some Sambuca. So we have Sambuca while we discuss how thick we want the steaks. Then, before the guy cuts the steaks, he goes away and comes back with two mugs of beer. So we stand there and drink our beer and listen to Mr. Martino tell stories (which I don't understand but I guess Al's had more practice) while we wait for the steaks. Then they're ringing us up and give us another shot of Sambuca. Mr. Martino's rattling off with a big grin on his face about whatever he's telling us, the whole while.
So finally, twenty or so minutes later, we say a fond farewell and weave our drunken way out of the butcher shop.
Some time ago we were at a dinner party in the Bronx, at an amazing Italian restaurant. One of the guys who was there, a Jewish guy (but he passes easy for Italian!) was lamenting the loss of the Italian neighborhoods in the Bronx and in Manhattan. He said they're really, really shrinking and it's hard to find good Italian shops now, where there once were a million.
I just think, there aren't a lot of actual butchershops left anywhere -- let alone, ones that have been around for fifty years, where they cut your steaks to order and drink with you while you wait.
posted by birdpants at 8:36 PM
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