Betty Lives!

The Fireside Cook Book

James Beard

1949

I think a lot of people my age who watched Cheers throughout high school wished that they too could eventually find a bar where the bartender (and everyone) knew their name (la, la, la). Not me. All I really dreamed of was a neighborhood butcher shop and a butcher who knew my name. When we moved to Park Slope I found that shop, Great Western Fine Foods, and that butcher, Jimmy. Over the last six years Jimmy has provided me with countless pounds of ground beef, also chickens, ducks and sausages. Not to mention indulged my requests for bizarre pig parts, 2-inch t-bone steaks, and various fresh game birds in season. He is a sweet and gentle man whom I have come to know well and like immensely. He talks to me about the changing neighborhood, about my recipes, and, when I shipped my daughter off to camp on the bus for the first time, he allayed my fears and calmed me down. He is an accomplished photographer, he thinks that one day he would prefer to coach wrestling, and on the first warm day of Spring he puts his boat in the water and spends every free moment he can aboard it. He has two little girls who are excellent swimmers. His siblings are all successful professionals but it was Jimmy who followed in his father’s footsteps at Great Western and the store has served the Park Slope community for over 60 years. So it was with both shock and grief that I walked over to buy a leg of lamb and found the gates down, the lights out.

A few months ago Jimmy had whispered something to me about selling the building so he could spend more time with his kids on Long Island, but the plan seemed vague and without body. I wish he had told me how quickly it would happen. I wish he had written me a letter of recommendation for another butcher so I could just walk in, hand over the document, and shop at the new place like they know me. Mostly I just wish he had said goodbye.

I ended up buying the lamb at a sort-of Park Slope mini-chain called Union Market from a guy who wouldn’t be able to tell a skirt steak from a shell steak if there weren’t little plasticized labels. The meat in the case was getting dark and crusty at the edges. There is no way these guys will ever order tripe for me. I’m heartbroken.

The Fireside Cook Book was Beard’s fourth effort and by the time he wrote it, he was well on his way to celebrity. It’s a fantastic piece of work to read and experience (the magnificent illustrations are by Alice and Matin Provensen). The lamb recipe, which Beard claims is traditional in Sweden, sounded odd: roast lamb “in the usual way” (meaning to add some onions, carrots and potatoes to the pan) and halfway through, pour a cup of coffee with cream and sugar over the top. Beard says to baste with the coffee every ten minutes but because his lamb was cooked until medium and mine was cooked until rare, he got more bastings in. When I took it out of the oven it just looked like a regular roast that someone had mistakenly spilled their drink on, so I reduced the liquid. This worked out because the cream and sugar created a nice glaze for the meat and vegetables and removed the deep coffee flavor. The resulting taste was more like caramel with a slightly bitter aftertaste. I made Doug guess the secret ingredient which he insisted was truffles for ten full minutes.

The quality of the lamb was adequate I suppose, but it didn’t come with any banter or good boating stories. So long Jimmy, I’ll miss you, and you still owe me a suckling pig.