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By now the meat stench had been replaced by sour-milk stench, and I was about to hurl�when I spotted BEVERAGES.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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