Finding good meat in Brooklyn is hard. The Bravo Supermarket on the corner of Bedford Avenue sells beef that is often slightly brown and their prices are outrageous. My teeth have weakened after forty years of eating candies and sweets, so chewing tough food does not suit my taste buds. Yesterday, while searching for more tender tissue, I discovered a meat market in Bed-Stuy. It’s on the corner of Nostrand and Myrtle Avenues, just across the street from the Marcy Projects. They sell the best oxtails this side of the South.
Despite my weakening jaw, I try hard to follow the Atkins Diet. I lost fifty pounds after reading that book. I consider its words golden. My body looks better now than it did in my twenties when I was well over 200 pounds. Removing carbs from one’s diet reduces the options of what’s for dinner though.
B., my gold-toothed lover is part Muslim and he does not eat pork. He’s black and, like me, has an obsession with chicken. Although we both love its soft, succulent consistency, B. is very picky and insists only on high-quality chicken– especially after the recent Avian Flu Virus scare. He does not trust what they sell at the supermarket on the corner.
Rarely do I digest carbohydrates. Fruits, vegetables and meats are the only foods in my diet. Finding good meat in the hood is not easy though. It’s like searching for the perfect man. I was pleased to discover the meat market on Myrtle yesterday. B. suggested I go there to get the oxtails.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me there is a meat market over there?”
“You never asked.”
B. wanted Oxtails for Sunday dinner. They sell the medallions at the store on the corner, but often just the tips– not the larger pieces from the base of the tail. The meat market had entire oxtails inside refrigerated, glass paneled display cases.
At only $5 per pound, I took just over four, which amounted to an entire tail that the butcher slapped on a scale before cutting it up for me. I never knew ox had four-foot tails. It looked like a whip.“How tick you wan it?”
“About an inch,” I suggested.
He returned moments later with the oxtail medallions.
Last night before coming to bed, my lover from the hood whipped up this evening’s dinner. Lots of seasonings were sprinkled on. He cut up a few carrots, a turnip, onions, celery and garlic and tossed the wiggly entre into a slow cooker.
As we slept, the oxtail and vegetables slowly simmered in a red wine broth.
It smells like good sex in Brooklyn today.