At the supermarket’s meat section, the staff ran out of chicken adobo cuts so I had to get a whole and had it chopped by the in-house butcher. I told him to cut it up for adobo. (The last time I was there, I realized I knew nothing about meat cuts and so didn’t know what to instruct the butcher. When I got home with the whole uncut chicken, I immediately sought out my sister who was visiting (she was the cook among us siblings when we were growing up) and surreptitiously asked about meat cuts.)
I was fifth in line to the butcher counter. I had plenty of time to observe. The butcher’s movements as he cuts the meat – precisely, wide-spaced three whacks then rapid-fire succession chopping then slow finishing ones – are on the whole the most beautiful thing, if you really focus on it. Beautiful in that the cutting takes up a rhythm. Beautiful because it’s like an art. I looked at the butcher’s facial movements and saw he was enjoying the act (the reason perhaps why his movements exuded rhythm and art).
In another life, I could be a butcher (another one would be a make-up artist, the likes of Bobbi Brown). But first I need to get over my fear of holding big knives. Second, when the local market is already paying butchers competitive rates based on skill. If working as a butcher pays for your rent in a decent neighborhood and buy you decent meals why ever not?