Summer People Vs. Beef

Summer people always think they can find the same luxury items they’re accustomed to in the big city out here in our little blue-collar town of 4,000 people. Dean was eying a rib-eye steak in the butcher case the other day, waiting his turn as the butcher, a blunt, irascible gray-haired guy who looks like he could take a side of beef apart without resorting to knives, served the summer people ahead of him.

Summer guy: “Is that free-range beef?”

Butcher: “Not any more.”

Summer guy: “What do you mean?”

Butcher: “I mean it ain’t ranging nowhere but my butcher case now.”

Summer guy: “But is it organic? Sometimes they say organic but the pasture where they graze is treated with chemicals. Were they all grass-fed, or fed grain and supplements too? How about bovine growth hormones or antibiotics?"

Butcher: “I dunno ‘bout all that stuff, but it’s grass-fed Angus. Damn fine beef.”

Summer guy looked doubtful. “Do you have any Wagyu beef?”

Butcher: “Not here, but if go about two miles west of town, there’s a ranch that can help you out. ‘Course it’s on the hoof.”

Summer guy: “On the hoof?”

Butcher: “Still walkin’ around. Still free-range, you might say.”

Summer guy’s looking a little nervous and confused by now. “Okay, ummm . . . do you have any prime rib?”

Butcher: “Yup. Twenty bucks a pound.”

Wow. The usual price for prime rib around here is $10 a pound, and on sale it's usually around $6.50.

The butcher leaned forward over his case with a conspiratorial, “you look like nice folks so I tell you what I’ll do” expression.

Butcher: “Tell ya what. Buy a nice hunk and I’ll make it fifteen bucks a pound.”

Summer guy: “Uh, sure. Okay.”

Summer guy took his overpriced prime rib and now it’s Dean’s turn. The butcher turns to him with a smile. Hey, a familiar face. A regular customer. A local. Dean always asks him to cut our prime rib (when it's on sale), and he likes it “nicely marbled, small fat cap.” To which the butcher always nods approvingly, as if to say, “there’s a guy who knows his meat.”

Butcher: “What can I do for you?”

Dean: “I’d like a nice rib-eye, good marbling, small fat rim.”

Butcher: “Sure thing,” as he reaches into the butcher case. “How ‘bout this one?”

Dean: “I dunno. What pasture was it raised in?”


Summer people also have issues with cheese and patience.  

Summer People Vs. Cheese

Summer people aren’t used to shopping like regular people. In fact, some of them don’t appear to be used to shopping for anything at all, except perhaps their next wealthy spouse. They expect to hand over a list to a clerk in any store – grocery store, hardware store, WalMart – and have the clerk hunt and gather for them while they clack their French-manicured nails on their smartphones and tap their Prada-shod toes impatiently, as if to say, “It never takes this long when I send Rosita out to do the shopping.”

So Dean’s in the grocery store checkout line. It’s Friday afternoon so it’s extra-busy, with all the regulars, the summer people, weekend people and vacationers passing through. Lines are long and the clerks are checking them out as fast as they can. A summer woman walks up to the harried check-out clerk and says “show me your cheese.”

Clerk: “Cheese is at the back of the store, straight up aisle three.”

Summer woman: “Come and show me!”

Clerk: “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m checking these people out.”

Summer woman’s expression says exactly what she thinks of both the clerk and “these people.”

Summer woman: “I can’t find your cheese. Come and show me where it is.”

The clerk’s starting to look desperate but she sees a free bagger. “Bob, can you show her where the cheese is?”

Bob walks to the back of the store and both he and summer woman are back in a moment, with her giving him a lecture on all things cheese-related. “I saw THAT cheese, but surely that can’t be all you have? That’s just . . . just . . .” cheese-related terminology failed her for a moment and then she found the dreadful adjective suitable for this occasion. “That’s just REGULAR cheese.” Bob’s shrugging an apology for the regular-ness of the cheese section as she rattles off some type of artisanal cheese that she MUST HAVE. Poor Bob can only shrug.

A couple of years ago I joked about summer people wanting artisanal cheese salted with the tears of the poor. I thought I was kidding.

Patience, Summer People

Oh, summer people. Always in a hurry. Like the woman who barged in front of me with her cart at the grocery store check-out line the other day. Definitely a summer person. Expensive bag, jewelry glittering at her neck, on her wrist and on most of her fingers, setting off her chic and simple white sundress. Cart filled with expensive cuts of meat and bottles of wine. By way of semi-apology, she said to her husband, but not to me, “I’m in such a hurry today. Some days I just don’t have the patience to wait in line.” Okay.

I waited patiently and checked out behind the summer people. As I pushed my cart out into the parking lot, I noticed a little drama unfolding in the street. Summer woman was standing in the middle of the intersection, talking to a woman in a car that was sideways in the intersection. Summer woman was gesturing with her shiny bejeweled hands, first in one direction and then the other. Then she gestured to the side of the road where another car was pulled over. The other woman pulled her car over and parked behind it. Both women then got out their cell phones and started taking pictures of the vehicles.

As I drove out, I went past the two cars, which had now been joined by a police car. Summer woman continued to gesture, first one direction and then the other, jewelry sparkling in the sun. Apparently summer woman didn’t have the patience to wait her turn in traffic either.