Quiet, Steaks Sleeping, According to Girl

Quiet, steaks sleeping according to Girl: No malls. No outlets. No franchises.
One of the charms of the Village were the little stores—mom and pop shops featuring unique boutique items, one of a kind jewelry, unusual clothing, or special foods.

The typical shoppers at these stores were on foot. Most walked past them on a daily basis. Those that bought from them usually lived nearby, so they would be able to transport their purchases in a single paper shopping bag. Many had little pull along two-wheeled shopping carts. No one drove a car.

Our trek from home to work and school provided us with the windows of the world. Everything a person might want or need could be transacted for on the other side of those windows. The signs above were not the draw. The windows were the billboards.

Did the store have customers—look in the window.

Did the store have a sale—look in the window.

Did the store carry steak—look in the window.

STOP! Just a minute, I think I saw that same steak last week. At least it looked like the same steak. I suppose all steaks look pretty much alike. But it sure looked exactly like the one I saw hanging on that hook. Was it a real steak? Or, perhaps it was a plastic replica of the actual product?

I am getting sick. How many flies would have landed on that piece of meat? If I had not walked past that same shop five days a week for the past year, would I have noticed? What would the health department say?

Maybe it was Tony’s idea to dry age the steaks. The little butcher in the back, with his blood-stained white apron, and the tall chef’s hat (which gave him the appearance of an additional eight inches). In his right hand he wielded a shiny cleaver, and in his left, a length of butcher paper. A roll of twine sat on a spindle, much like a giant sewing machine, with its "thread" looping through a few eyebolts, then ending up at his butcher block counter next to the rest of his sharp tools.

After work, the neighborhood would stand in line for his cuts. He would slice, weigh, wrap and price, just like a machine. At the door Mama Leoni would punch her cash register, take the money and smile an almost friendly "Arrivederci."

We watched from the window—slowing down, but never really stopping. Certainly never shopping.

Tony and Mama were always there, the lines were long, the beef-aging continued. We bought our groceries at the dirty little supermarket around the corner. I figured they also had a butcher who was also covered with blood, carried a similar cleaver, and also had a big butcher block. But that butcher wrapped his work in cellophane, and I never had to watch him violently chop up our dinner.

Less charm, perhaps. But I liked it that way.

So, at the end of the day, Tony and Mama retired to their apartment above the store. She would fix him his favorite, and they would count their money. Afterward Tony would tuck it under their mattress.

As they lay in bed at night, he would talk about the day they would open their own restaurant.

"Olive Garden" Tony Gallagher said, as he drifted off to sleep. "I think I will call it Olive Garden."

Mama just nodded her sleepy head and said, "Uh-huh."