Elegant Bastard
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Butchers of Distinction or I Do Not Dream of Brussel Sprouts
At one point in their late 80’s, my father and his best buddy were asked to name some accomplishment that gave them a strong sense of pride. We expected these survivors of The Great Depression, two wars and great social upheavals to reference successful kids, strong marriages, or even owning homes but they surprised us. As my Dad put it, the one thing he accomplished that neither his father nor his grandfather ever could was putting meat on his family’s dinner table every night.
Granted, during lean financial times, “meat” could be fried Spam or tinned corn beef, but during better days, “meat” to these old warriors meant the steaks and the chops for which it was worth putting in their dentures.
When I shared this moment with a group of friends - all carnivores, all in our 60’s and all with our own teeth - the nodding was unanimous. Each of us could think of moments we had journeyed great distances to reach some restaurant renowned for its meats. None of us had ever travelled for turnips. None of us, Dear Reader, had ever dreamed of brussel sprouts.
Meat – more than cheese, bread or even wine - had its own place in our personal mythologies and, fortunately, its own temples where we, the faithful, could gather. One such place, especially during these pestilential times, is Butchers of Distinction at 738 Queen Street East.
Why? Obviously, as the old Dominion Store jingle said, “it’s mainly because of the meat.” It’s all there, every imaginable cut, hormone free and sourced from farms known for ethical and sustainable practices. Butchers of Distinction also offers in-house prepared main dishes and sides, including the best meat pies and fried chicken thighs I’ve yet to find in Toronto. Still, other butcher shops offer wonderful things. What makes Butchers a safe “escape”, especially these days?
Simply put, the knowledgeable staff working there “get it”. They honour and work hard to preserve the comforting myth. Whether I am there for the holiday roast, the celebratory steak or the Friday night burger, something almost ritualistic is taking place. Cross-counter discussions of everything from preferred breed to best cooking method are commonplace.
The outside world – all of it – disappears. For a moment it’s only about the marbling or the marinade. Was the animal grain or grass fed? Should preparation be slow and low or fast and high?
I’ve always lived in cities. Getting groceries usually means simply crossing the street. Getting here, on the other hand, requires an hour long walk. The question then becomes, is the overall experience worth the extra mile and the extra buck? In the case of Butchers of Distinction, the answers are yes and yes. Cheers!
