2005-06-02 - 8:44 p.m.
HERE'S THE BEEF...
I’ve got a beef…with Western Beef. For those of you who have never heard of it, Western Beef is a quasi-supermarket/slaughterhouse located in New York’s fashionable MPD (meat-packing district)…uh, duh..!!Surrounded by four-star restaurants, top designer emporiums and ultra-exclusive clubs where Lindsay Lohan or Tara Reid or other anorexic/demi-celebs fall down in puddles of their own vomit at least once a week, Western Beef is definitely the ugly girl at the party.
But, here’s the deal. Last week it started pouring on my way back from Chelsea market, (a beautifully-restored warehouse that’s now home to several high-end food shops, bakeries,a dairy, fish store, basket shop, etc.), and I realized that I had forgotten a few things. So, I ducked into Western Beef for orange juice and water...a quick in-and-out procedure...or so I thought. Unfamiliar with its complicated floorplan, and dizzy from the overwhelming stench of rancid meat, I wandered around aimlessly,
First I passed through some car wash-style plastic curtain into the refrigerator room…that’s right…the WHOLE room is a refrigerator. Rows and rows of pork chops , lamb chops, veal chops, turkey chops, ostrich chops, chicken chops, and steaks, bigger steaks, giant steaks, Volkswagen-sized steaks, kidneys, brains, livers, gizzards,pituitary glands, Isles of Langerhans, and other awful offal were conveniently packaged in 10-pound plastic-covered trays.
But no orange juice or water.
The next room was filled with all kinds of “postres” and “dulces” and “craquelinos” as well as “leche,” “queso” and other “productas de las vacas.” Oh, yeah…and, like 80-oz. boxes of Corn Pops were on sale for $3.99.
By now the meat stench had been replaced by sour-milk stench, and I was about to hurl…when I spotted BEVERAGES. I grabbed a six-pack of Fiji water and a container of low-cal Tropicana and thought I was outta there. But, oh NO, my friends.
Now I’m on a long-ass line behind many pock-mocked Pedros, tubby Teresas, and loquatious La-Quayshas. I inched along... afraid to touch anything, breathe anything, or have anything or anyone touch or breathe on me.
I was NEXT…yay.
The young Black dude at the register must have had a cold or a major allergy attack…or some blow in his blow-hole…because he kept sniffling and wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. Finally, he grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the counter. They’re probably handy to wipe down all the pig blood and chicken entrails that must ride the conveyor belt on the way to the register. But today, boyfriend-with-the sniffles forms two “nose-cones” and shoves them up his gaping ‘strils’…to dam up his river of mucus. As each cone became saturated, dude bro replaced it with another, but not before examining the contents of the just-removed ‘stril-plug. Then, each used mucus rag was neatly placed on top of the cash drawer. Just sitting there like so many delicate water lilies floating on a pond…but so NOT.
Now it’s my turn…and I’m completely nauseous knowing that he’s going to be touching my water bottles and juice container with his germy, snot-smeared hands. Ugh…I’m dying. Help. This is GROSS. I think I’m in a Fellini movie. How does this place stay open?? …ARRRGGGgggh.
Back on the grease-slicked streets, exhausted, I headed home with my bio-hazard bags. Back in the apartment, I put on my rubber gloves and scrubbed down my Western Beef purchases and sprayed disinfectant on all surfaces that said products had touched.
Then I took a much-needed nap. And, as Martha Stewart is my witness...I will NEVER shop at Western Beef again.
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