Steak

I get out of bed. Nothing more, nothing less.

Stumbling out of my room this morning seems more painful than heading to work because at least when I’m going to work, I'm going somewhere.

Keurig Coffee is the one thing I look forward to in the mornings, but as I make my trek to the kitchen it hits me, I have no more K-cups.

Just my luck.

Shuffling through the hall, I suddenly start reminicing about Chiara, my italian ex-girlfriend, who used to wake me up one of two ways. One of which was to the smell of freshly brewed espresso.

She used this dinky looking pot that I wasn't allowed to wash with soap. She called it her *Bialetti*, while anyone outside of Italy calls it a moka pot.

"Ah, here it is" I say to myself as I pull it out from the back of the kitchen drawers.

Rummaging through my cabinets in hopes of finding coffee beans, I stumble across an old bag of espresso grounds that expired in December and think to myself, maybe there is a God; it's only March.

Setting up the moka pot became more annoying than I expected, and despite some inconvenient hiccups, I finally get it going. Waiting for it to brew, I notice through my living room window that the world has yet to begin. I start to think; when was the last time the sun and I woke up together?

I check the fridge for some milk and realize I’m due for a trip to the store.

In the middle of weighing my needs and wants from the store, the pot starts spurting bean water at me. It's telling me the coffee's now ready.

As the coffee aroma permeates the air, I pour myself a cup and find myself staring out the window again. Something about the stillness, the rising sun and smell of coffee takes me to Venice. I’ve never been nor thought of going, but now I am seeing the roads starting to ripple, the cars becoming gondolas, and my dollar store mug turning into a porcelain cup from a Venetian cafe. As I take the first sip, I am reminded I could not be farther away.

Dumping the cup of coffee in the sink seemed wasteful but also a civic duty.

Dressing myself is never difficult; my uniform is a nicely pressed white tee, tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans and an old pair of Chuck Taylors. Nothing special...

Before I head out I slide on my grandfather's watch and am reminded that even though his time has expired, his watch still has life to give.

Walking down the stairs they groan as if it's still too early to be using them; I make my way out the door and into the garage. Keys in hand and clumsiness in my veins, I kick over the bicycle that has been in the garage for so long it looks like it was built with the house. It wants me to think it's vintage, but it's just a 40-year-old piece of crap. I've been beating it for years hoping it would break so I can get myself a new one... but they built machines stubbornly durable back in the day. How can something so old still be so useful, I wonder.

As the garage door closes I briefly second-guess my decision to start my trip on two wheels rather than four, but ringing the bell eases my doubts.

Picking up speed down the road didn't last long as the glare of the rising sun is cut out by the onslaught of road and construction equipment.

When did this happen?

I take this road every day, but for some reason, the day I take my bike out, it's out of commission...

I try to hold onto the feeling that I haven’t made a mistake. As I look around I notice an alleyway on my left. It appears to have been there the whole time, but up until now it's never presented itself to me.

I size up whether I should take the detour or if I take the known path, which would add an 20 extra minutes to my commute.

I look back at the alley when my instincts are starting to lock in.

On the one hand, this gloomy route is filled with dumpsters, darkness, and despair; on the other hand...Shortcut!

It doesn't take long before I start questioning my decision. As I pass up the forgotten parts of the city, I make it out the other end before the smell of my surroundings gets to me. Regardless of the experience, making it through that alley saved me at least twenty minutes, and by the sounds of my heavy breathing from the mile I’d ridden so far, it was well worth it.

But the time-savings come at a cost, as the alley shoots me out into a part of the city that I am not familiar with. I step off the bike to get my bearings. Looking around for an address I notice this rustic wooden sign swinging from a cast iron rod with a rat holding two meat cleavers and a chef’s hat. Charming. Although the paint was chipping, I could make out the name in the ribbon carved below the rat; it read, “Ol Rat’s Butcher Shop.”

Intrigued, I lean the bike on the way wall with the confidence that anyone willing to steal it must need it more than I do. Walking up to the window, for some reason, I couldn't get over how clean the glass was. I catch myself in the reflection and think to myself "Damn, there's no better outfit than jeans and a white tee. Being a handsome motherfucker sure helps too but it even makes the ugly ones look good".

Behind my handsome reflection, I notice steaks being presented so meticulously it makes me feel the need to clean my room. Beyond the display cases, behind the counter, I see an older gentleman. It looks like the butcher just getting ready for his day. The man moved slow but with purpose. There was no wasted movement and in those few moments, I could tell that he had been doing this for quite some time. While studying the butcher, I thought, “When was the last time I even had a steak?” I chuckled as I reminisced about my college roommates and I making “Dorm Steaks” flattened-out ground beef that we had to microwave because hot plates weren’t allowed in our room. As if the butcher could sense me daydreaming, he suddenly stops and quickly peers over his shoulder, looking at me so intensely that it makes me jump.

Sizing me up as I had done to him, he waives me inside despite the sign on the glass door saying "closed".

The bell chimes as I walk through the door and the butcher, without looking, dismissively says, “I’ll get to you in a sec.”

I see the charm doesn't end with the sign.

Instead of twiddling my thumbs, I look around the shop and notice the right wall. It is filled with distant memories and accomplishments of the butcher. In the pictures, I see an aspiring young man resembling the one behind the counter, but the ambitious glisten in the young man’s eyes tells me that although they appear to be the same man they were different people. An newspaper cut out catches my eye, reading “Art ‘The Rat’ Has the Best Cuts in The City!”. As my head moves closer to the framed article and I start reading beyond the headline I hear—

“Nice watch.”

Startled, I turn and say, “Thanks, my grandfather gave it to me.”

*Awkward silence ensues*

“Huh... so whatcha need?” he asks.

Such a simple question, and yet I wasn't prepared to answer.

“Um, steak.”

I knew it was a stupid response as soon as the words left my mouth, and the butcher let me know it.

“No shit.”

Sensing my embarrassment as I looked to the ground the butcher compassionately rolls his eyes, smirks, and says “Alright, what kinda steak do you normally get?”

Looking around the shop to get inspiration from the organized meat-case I spew out the only two cuts I manage to scrape from my memory.

“Filet mignon, but I have been wanting to try a tomahawk.”

“Tomahawk... that was good. He’ll definitely appreciate that,” I think to myself.

“You kids and that fucking tomahawk.”

I was wrong.

“You know it's just an expensive ribeye with a handle?”

Sparing me from any more embarrassment, the butcher asks, “Alright, you ever heard of a Delmonico?”

Of course I haven’t.

“I think so.” I stutter.

The butcher chuckles and explains, “I get my stuff from a rancher bout two hours north who tends to leave a little extra meat on the bone.”

Butcher puns, hilarious.

“I call it the Brooklyn,” he smugs, “but that’s just because I like to cut it a little different to a traditional Delmonico. I usually only cut a few to enjoy and not sell, but I just so happen to have an extra one if you’re interested.”

Before I could even get a thank you out, the butcher had already turned and started wrapping the steak with the same precision I admired from the window.

“What do I owe you?” I stammer.

“Don’t worry about it kid. It’s on the house,” the butcher responds as he holds out the freshly wrapped steak that's reminiscent of a Christmas present from the 1930s.

“Wow thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As I reach for the steak, I am met with slight resistance. A chill comes over me, thinking that the butcher realized he's made a mistake. I look up, and my eyes are met with the same glisten I noticed from the young man in the pictures on the wall.

“Medium-high pan,

Butter,

Rosemary,

Three minutes each side,

Let it rest for ten.”

I nod appreciatively and make my way to the door.

“Aye kid!” the butcher bellows from across the shop in a tone testing me - “How are you going to cook that steak?”

Peering over my shoulder with a smirk I bellow back, “I’m gunna fucking microwave it.”

-------------

Every day can be an adventure, but you have to be present to experience it. We live in a world engulfed by the newest and greatest, overlooking the amazing things and experiences our lives already possess. Our world is filled with stories, ready to be written by no other than you.

This story represents the extraordinary stories your life has in store for you so long as you allow yourself to write them. In simple inconveniences of life lies purpose and accomplishment → that is experiencing life to the fullest; that is... Rennpunkt.

-- written by Earl Schaffer and Jaccob Vargas, with the help of Ben