Butcher culture is a significant value I have come to recognize in Italian society. Almost akin to a religious devotion. Every family demonstrates unwavering loyalty, placing their absolute trust in their chosen butcher. Reputable butchers are well known and greatly esteemed, borderline celebrity status. Being that food is the center of every Italian’s day, but especially important holidays, butchers play a huge role in our community. This morning, after having just gone to the butcher two days ago, I thought that I would beat the rush and go early at 9:00 in the morning! When I walked in the door, two elderly ladies were simultaneously making massive orders. As if they had been up for hours already laying out the weekend’s menu for their family, just thinking and organizing each meal on loop: lunch, dinner, lunch, dinner… But precisely Sunday lunch, it’s always a big deal to begin with. I was wracking my brain on what the occasion could possibly be… I know “Madonna del conforto” is this upcoming week, but it’s way too early to be considering these festivities (for those of you who are from across the pond, you could associate this with Fat Tuesday). Who knows? Perhaps additional extended family are coming into town. 

These ladies had no doubts when it came to ordering, as if they were barking orders in a military command. Then the butcher rang up the bill and it was €109, I about fell over thinking “holy god that is a lot of meat!!!” The woman even demanded a discount. The butcher responded with “ma’am this is WITH the discount”. She muttered something inaudible and reached for her pocketbook, then she made him go over the contents in the bag. The butcher, Alfredo, read the itemized receipt back to her, and she nodded in agreement, almost proud of her choices. In my mind I imagined her thinking “das right” with each nod. The second lady in her fur coat was also making quite the selection almost as to not be out done by woman number one, she eyeballed the bag and half listened to the first woman’s itemized list and added to her own order, then spoke directly to Monica, Alfredo’s wife. 

I couldn’t compete with these two, I’m fairly new to the neighborhood, however, Alfredo picked up on the fact that we are American. He subtly drops hints that they pay attention to what we order and took a sudden interest in our purchases, requesting updates on how we have prepared their steak, sausages, ragno, diaframa, vitella, or whatever little delicacies they have prepared for the day. I clumsily take out my phone and read exactly what my husband has written in a text message, as to not screw up the order, because it seems to be a common occurrence. I get mildly annoyed when I’m given the task to go to the butcher only when I go and get exactly what I’m told but somehow I’m talented enough to mess it up in some way.. who the fuck knew there is a wrong way to order pancetta??? (Italian bacon) Without fail I always come home with something that wasn’t exactly correct, almost as a reflex I respond with “Then go yourself next time!!!”. I know Sam, my husband, only wants me to learn. I mean thus far if you sit me at a table with hardcore vegans/vegetarians, I would be considered the expert. Sam would definitely bet money on me to demolish them with my knowledge, yet I still have so much more to learn. Butchers here will tell you exactly how to cook your meat, or they’ll ask what you will be cooking the piece of meat on, either the padella, the bistecchiera, or the grill and for exactly how long the piece needs to cook for.. 

Wait! It’s just now dawning on me… I’m realizing that there is a huge chance being American could be THE reason for these interrogations, almost a concern that they don’t want me to ruin a perfectly good piece of meat, I hope they don’t sense my insecurities. Americans have a tarnished reputation for putting A1 steak sauce or ketchup on their meat. In Tuscany that is considered a hate crime because it would ruin the quality of the flawless piece of meat. It’s as bad as putting ice cubes in your wine, or ordering a cappuccino after 12:00, things American tourists are notorious for. But I’m working hard to disassociate with all of these cringe worthy acts. Once I walked into Alfredo’s, he looked up and smiled and said “Americana!!! Buongiorno! What are you here for…hamburgers?” I scoffed, became instantly enraged and thought “UMMMMMMMMMMM RUDE!!!! How dare he stereotype me!!!!”. But yes I was there for burgers and he asked me if he wanted me to mix the patties with beef and pork, I had no idea that was even an option but this man clearly knows what he is doing, I accepted. 

When you walk out of Alfredo’s shop and take a left, Piazza di San Francesco is the next big attraction. There is a large stone church with several stairs that drape off the front, a frequent hangout for the chic cool kids on a Friday and Saturday night, dressed in their best, holding beers, cocktail drinks, or wine glasses, using the stairs as bleachers. If you are up early enough the next morning you can see broken beer bottles or unfinished drinks on the steps, and random black straws all over the ground. Cemented in these steps is a pillar holding a monument of Vittorio Fossombroni caressing a lion. To re-cap, take a left out of Alfredo’s, approach Piazza San Francesco, when you see the statue, take a left on Via Madonna del Prato. It is a downward sloped cobblestone road that rarely has vehicles on it. Bars and restaurants on either side of the narrow street, if you continue downhill there are hair salons, barbershops, clothing stores, a tattoo shop and a small artigianal beer joint. Next to the beer place, strategically placed is Masterchips, a place to buy take away french fries with an assortment of dipping sauces. A door down from Masterchips is Dini’s butcher shop, another renowned butcher in Arezzo. The morning I went to Alfredo’s for Sam’s order, I took this exact path on my way to work. Almost on cue Dini walks out at the moment I’m in front of his window, holding a stack of collapsed boxes to put them on the corner for cardboard pick up. I was holding a clear plastic bag with my items wrapped in butcher paper, it was obvious I had just been to the butcher up the street. He was dressed in a white lab coat over green scrubs and white rubber clogs. He is a tall man with a head full of light grey hair. I felt at fault almost, I have nothing against Dini’s shop, it’s actually my go to place when I need to impress someone with a great Tuscan dish, as a matter of fact, I heavily rely on his duck ragù when I need to hit a home run in the kitchen. My heart sank, he was my original teacher, he patiently had instructed me on how long each cut needed to cook for and with kindness asked me how many people I would be serving and make his little suggestions on what I can pair the piece with. Dini has a few things that Alfredo doesn’t have, he has lamb, entire rabbits, entire foul, and on occasion I have seen pigeon. He also has a larger selection of the home made delicacies that are big pieces of meat inside of what looks like a string fish-net stocking, stuffed with other ingredients, and topped with either a citrus, rosemary, sage, bay leaves and a coarse scrub of spices. IF I had stopped at Dini’s and walked by Alfredo’s, I would have been caught red-handed. Dini now provides white bags with their large logo on each side, for your purchases, the bag resembles one of those white Prada shopping bags. Alfredo has a nice quality butcher paper but top of the line business cards, I currently have one on my dresser. Square card with a black and white photo of Alfredo holding a steak on one hand and another big piece of meat on the other, in his mouth he has coiled sausages linked together, hanging out either side, the meat is the only color on the card, red of course. The back of the card has a black cleaver with white chunky letters that say “Alfredo” below the cleaver it has their address and phone number and a quote that says “Siamo ciò che mangiamo” meaning, we are what we eat. 

Years prior, after living in the city center of Arezzo for some time, we moved out to the countryside. We went to another butcher shop in a town called Castiglion Fibocchi. I had a few Thanksgivings under my belt by this time and found a group of Americans to celebrate “friendsgiving”. I was responsible for booking the turkey. Here is my conversation with the butcher on the phone last year: 

Me: Yes good morning, I need to order a turkey for this week…

Butcher: A turkey???

Me: Yes, make it a female so she’s not that big…

Butcher: A turkey????????????????

Me: Yes, I need to feed 9 people…

Butcher: A female turkey?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! You know she’ll be 5 kilos right?!

Me: Yes sir I am aware.. can you make sure you chop her head and feet off?… she’ll be hanging out in the oven… 

Butcher: Miss who are you???!!!!!

Me: Oh I live in Meliciano, we are an American couple… 

LONG PAUSE……..

Butcher: Oh right right of course! Ok so I’ll see you later this week and I’ll have your 5 kilo female TURKEY.. I just want to double check.. 

Me: Correct, I can leave my name and number for you if you’d like..

Butcher: No no we know exactly who you are.

After being MIA in Arezzo historical center for 6 years, we resurfaced and ended up smack in the middle of our old neighborhood. We were evicted exactly a year ago actually, but that is a story for another time. Re-establishing ourselves and getting reacquainted with the butchers and grocery stores here has been an adventure. Plus we have kids this time around.

I contemplated leaving this part out but I think it’s fair to mention, Sam might actually have a small man crush on Alfredo, or more like he really respects him to the highest regard for his craft. Perhaps in another life Sam was a butcher himself. One Sunday morning we parked at the fortress at the top of our town. And from around the corner a very fit man with a bandana and a sporty outfit came running, he seemed like a seasoned runner. Sam greeted him saying “buongiorno”. After the man was a nice distance away, Sam softly but in a serious tone asked “did you SEE who that was???”. I was busy pushing a stroller, annoyed at the cold wind. “No, who was it?” I asked. It was Alfredo, Sam acted almost star-struck.