Brian Knight
I haven’t always been a vegetarian.
***
There was a time when meat was my livelihood as well as my passion. I grew up in a cattle ranching family just outside of Texarcana, Texas. It was huge, not the largest in Texas, but close. I won’t go into acreage or how many thousands of heads of Cattle we owned, but it was huge, and profitable enough that I never had to get my own hands dirty. My brother and I learned about the work end of the business by watching other people do it, our mother wanted white-collar sons. We were trained for management from early ages, groomed to take over the family business when our father decided to retire.
I didn’t expect to fill his place for a very long time; father was getting on in years, but he was healthy and sharp as a tack. It was a stray shot from my brother’s rifle that expedited our ascension. A Hunting accident? I’m still not fully convinced that he murdered our father, but I’m not convinced otherwise either.
Not quite a year had passed since our father’s death, the suspicion still fresh in my mind, when dear old brother offered to buy me out of the business. The image of my father lying dead in the underbrush and snow of the Idaho Mountains still fresh in my mind, his head missing from the eyebrows up, I accepted my brother’s generous offer. I haven’t returned to the Okeyday Ranch since then, now fifteen years ago.
***
I wasn’t unhappy leaving the business behind, the money I received for my half paired with my investment savvy was enough to keep me more than comfortable for the rest of my life, and I was free now to pursue my passion for exotic meats full time. This passion, a gift from my father, was something the rest of my family didn’t share: it was ours alone. On our numerous family trips around the country my father and I would inevitably venture off alone in pursuit of new meat. We ate Possum in Louisiana, Squid in New England, Rocky Mountain Oysters (Bull’s testicles to the unfamiliar) in Idaho, Buffalo in Oregon, Rattle snake in Washington. Though disgusting by most people’s standards, it was all perfectly legal. It wasn’t until after my father’s death that my tastes began to deviate.
I began a three-year tour of the globe in my quest for new meat. I’ve tasted Lion meat on an illegal hunting Safari in Africa; I’ve dined on Crocodile with a party in the Australian outback. I’ve eaten the eggs of the endangered North American Bald Eagle, and I’ve consumed the brains of a Spider Monkey fresh from its skull. At the end of the three years I thought I had tried it all. Melancholy, feeling let down by the end of my experience abroad, I prepared to return home. It was an acquaintance of mine, the man who led my African Safari in fact, who told me about Horace Picket’s Sasquatch Cafe.
***
I called the Sasquatch Cafe, and after speaking for several minutes with a simple sounding young man I finally spoke with Horace.
“Afternoon,” he spoke crisply, “damn sorry about that, I tell Billy not to play with the telephone but lessn’ you watch him every second . . .” he left it at that. I smiled at his accent and dialect, which went beyond mere stereotype into the realm of parody. “What can I do fer ye’ t’day.”
“Theodore Strunk told me to call. He recommended your ‘House Special’ to me.” “House Special” was the first of three keywords. There was a long pause before Horace spoke again.
“Old Theo said to call huh? Ain’t seen Theo in a coon’s age, last I heard he was gallivantin’ around Africa shootin’ Lions.”
“Yes sir,” I said. “I met him on a ‘Dark Trail’ if Africa.” “Dark Trail” was the second keyword.
There was another pause, then, “I see. I’ll have to call my old pall Theo to make sure you’re a friend, but I think we can squeeze you in.”
With that he set a reservation for nine months later. I had no problem with the long wait because it meant traveling those North Idaho Mountains in the summer instead of autumn or winter. Those twisted, narrow mountain roads are not hospitable in the fall and winter months; I knew that from experience. Another thing the long wait meant to me: Horace Picket’s House Special must be exotic indeed. With a name like “Sasquatch Cafe” I could easily imagine what it was.
“One more thing,” Picket said. “How do you like your meat?”
With a smile on my face and a rekindled sense of adventure in my heart, I gave the last keyword. “Rare.”
***
Nine months later I made the trip, arriving in a small, piss-pot town called Harvard on the appointed day. Harvard could not rightly even be called a town, rather a small collection of old trailer homes, a restaurant, a rundown convenience store, and a few bars. Harvard was a wide spot on highway 8, a pathetic speck of civilization living in the imposing shadow of those tall Idaho Mountains. It was a beautiful, hot summer day and the stunted population seemed to be out in force. They milled about their yards, their fields, under the hoods of old broken down trucks, and in the parking lots of the two bars.
I pulled into the convenience store’s gravel lot and was greeted almost instantly by a thirty-something woman with dark tangled hair and a revealing yellow tank top. She poked her head into the open window of my rented car.
“Mornin,” she said in a pleasant voice. She smiled, revealing half a dozen dark teeth. A few long tufts of dark hair poked from her armpits. She leaned in farther, pushing her ample cleavage barely inches from my face. “What do ya’ want,” she said with a wink.
“I’m looking for the Sasquatch Cafe,” I said trying desperately to keep my gaze on her face. I was not attracted to her, my taste in women was more conservative than my taste in food, but when a woman’s breasts are that close to my face I find it difficult not to look. I didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. Alas, my curiosity got the better of me, and I got my eye full.
She smirked and pulled herself from the window. “Take the access road on the other side of town,” she said, pointing to a narrow dirt road just past the last house on the left of the highway. “It’s about fifteen minutes out of town. Watch out for the loggers though, they’ll run you off the road if you look at em’ wrong.”
I thanked her and began to pull away.
“Come back later if you’re still hungry Sugar,” she shouted. “I’ll have desert waiting for you.”
***
It was a logging road, narrow, twisting, and pressed on both sides by tall Pines. I followed it nervously, slowly, fearing a collision at every twist and corner. At last I came to a large clearing, a small bare pocket in that endless forest. It was filled with half a dozen large pickups and a rickety looking frontier style building. A faded wooden sign above the building’s double doors read “The Sasquatch Cafe.”
I pulled into the clearing and parked my clean rental car between two mud-caked trucks, the trunks of which were stuffed with a mojo of toolboxes, gasoline tanks, and sawing equipment.
The inside was about what I expected, though cleaner. There were perhaps a dozen men in the dinning room; some seated at the bar, some at small round tables, and a couple throwing darts. The hum of conversation stopped and all eyes fell on me as I entered. Behind me the double doors crashed closed, making me jump. Somewhere in the back of the room someone cleared their throat, and gradually the patrons lost interest in me. I walked to an empty stool at the far end of the bar and sat. The man to my right turned to me, glaring. His face was covered with a dark beard so thick I could scarcely see his eyes and the tip of his nose. His furry chin moved in rhythmic side to side motions as he chewed his lunch. Bread crumbs and bits of meat clung to the tangle on his chin.
“Howdy,” I said as amiably as I knew how.
He answered me with a meaty, staccato belch that drew a few snickers.
A huge man wearing food stained bib overalls over a dull white T-shirt approached me behind the bar. He held a dirty bar rag in his fist, which he used first to mop the sweat from his balding head, then to wipe down the scratched bar in front of me.
“Howdy Buba. Git you sumpin.” He flashed a wide, gap-toothed grin and used the rag on his sloped, too high forehead again. His too small eyes seemed in a state of perpetual squint. He was clearly retarded.
“Uh, I’m here to see Horace. I have an appointment.”
He turned toward the kitchen and shouted, “Hey Buba. Someone see you out here.”
A few seconds later Horace stepped out of the kitchen. “Damn-it Billy, I ain’t deaf ya’ know.”
Horace wasn’t at all what I expected. The image I had painted in my head over the past nine months was that of a scrawny, graying old man, half Gomer Pile and half Don Knots. Horace was young, about my age, short and plump with a round face and an Elvis pompadour with sideburns. He had a large stogie stuffed into the corner of his mouth and pail, greasy skin.
Then he saw me, his large, black eyes narrowing in on mine, and said, “What’s yer’ taste today sir?”
“House Special. Rare”
***
He led me past the bar to a locked door, and as he fumbled for his keys the barmaid approached us. Her face was tired, sad, older than its true age. She stopped beside me and fixed me with those sad eyes.
“You fucking pig,” she said. “I hope you choke on it.”
“Git Darla! Git on back to work and leave him alone.”
I stared at her, speechless in my shock. She cast one last glare at me as she walked away.
“Never mind my sister there. She ain’t right in the head right now.” Then almost whispering, “It’s one of them hormonal things, she just had a baby.” He pushed a well-worn key into the old lock and began to work it around, trying to catch the stubborn tumbler.
Sulking, Darla gathered dirty dishes from the emptying tables. She was followed closely by Billy, who watched her from behind with a slobbering, lusty grin.
Behind me Horace made a triumphant grunting noise as the key turned with a click, and he pushed the door open to reveal the darkened room beyond. “Your tables a’waitin,” he said ushering me into the unused room. He stepped in behind me, shutting and locking the door behind us. Sealing us in the tomb-like darkness. Then the light came back; cast from an ornate wagon-wheel chandelier that hung from the ceiling.
This private room was as plain as the dining room, there was a single table paired with a single high-backed chair and a door that led into the kitchen area. There were no windows or adornments to draw the eye away from the room’s main attraction: Bigfoot himself. Sasquatch, standing tall with his back against the far wall, arms reaching aimlessly, his large fingers curled into deadly hooks. Its mouth was open wide; jagged teeth exposed in a silent growl, its eyes glared at me in blind rage. Hanging from a chain around the stuffed beast’s neck was a copper plaque engraved with this legend: Sasquatch . . . The Other Red Meat.
I was overjoyed, ecstatic, delighted. I laughed out loud. “Ha! It does exist,” I shouted.
Horace scratched at his sideburns and looked at me as if I had gone mad. “Of course it does,” he said slowly, like a man speaking to an idiot or a small child. “Any fool knows that Sasquatch is real.”
I was seated, and Horace disappeared through the door to his kitchen. I waited in that silent, lonely room for perhaps an hour, but in my anticipation, it seemed like years. Every time my eyes would happen upon my stuffed companion my mouth began to water. I didn’t expect it to taste good; many exotic foods do not taste good to me. My mouth watered in anticipation of the experience, not the taste. I collected rare meats the way most men collect stamps or baseball cards. This would be the rarest meat in my collection.
Horace, dressed in clean new chef-whites, brought my plate to me on a large silver platter, set it before me, and after wishing me a pleasant meal in his quirky dialect left me alone to eat.
***
They were the choicest of cuts, smaller portions than I expected but prepared skillfully. Six smallish fillets perfectly spiced and roasted to a fine golden hue. Next to the meat was a lemon wedge and parsley garnish. Next to my plate was a crystal glass of Champagne.
The meat was exquisite. Never before had I tasted such as it. Tender and juicy with a taste that defies definition. I was in heaven. It was so fresh that I could almost hear it cry out as I cut into it. Never had I eaten a meal so slowly, so languidly. I took the smallest of bites, chewing each obsessively until every bit of flavor was milked from it. The Champagne I ignored, it would only dull the experience.
Finally the last bite was gone, a meal that I would never forget, and an experience that I would never duplicate. I was satisfied. No sooner than I laid my fork to rest on the plate, Horace appeared.
“How was your meal. Satisfactory?”
“Yes,” I said with a smile. “It was perfect.”
“Another satisfied customer,” he said, scooping up the platter with one pudgy hand and setting a small tray before me with the other. On the tray were three items. The bill, a Polaroid, and an after-dinner mint. I looked, and instantly became ill. It was not the bill, the high price had been settled on before hand and was no surprise.
It was the Polaroid.
A small child, an infant, lay naked on a large cutting board. Propped behind it was a large, white paperboard sign. "Angela Fea Picket," it said in bold letters. "8 lbs. 4 oz. Two weeks old."
The End