Veal Scaloppine

I enter the butcher shop before the Ninth Street market is fully awake. It’s at the corner of a tiny alley and the entrance, as are so many in old Philadelphia, is perpendicular to the corner. I push through the narrow double doors and step up into the white-tiled shop to find a bent-over Italian man in a white apron scrubbing a two-foot thick butcher block with a stiff brush. The block has been so long used that it is curved in the middle. He doesn’t look up.

I approach him with trepidation, armed only with a recipe from Julia Child I’ve never made before – veal scallops in a mushroom and wine sauce.

“A quarter pound of veal scallops, please,” I say.

“Scalopine” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head and not looking up.

I don’t speak Italian, but I think this is what I want, so I say, “Yes, a quarter pound.”

He turns and brings a blood-red slab of meat from behind the stainless steel door of the refrigerator, heaves it onto the concave block, turns again and comes back with the sharpest knife I have ever seen and begins to hone it on an ancient honing steel. Slowly, back and forth, back and forth, the blade shrieks against the steel, and I feel my right foot beginning to tap out my impatience on the wooden floor.

Finally, slowly, he begins to cut, almost paper thin slices, which he then – thick palm held against cut flesh – slices even thinner, not quite all the way through. After butterflying each one, he tosses it to his right (without looking) onto a piece of brown butcher paper resting on the scale. One by one, they mount up until finally he looks to see if he has enough. Just one more, and he’s got it.

I can’t believe how long this is taking — I have to get to work — and my breath is getting shorter as I wait for him to wrap them up, stiff fingers fumbling with the white string, and he finally hands them over, naming a price that I quickly pay. He still hasn’t looked me in the face, but as I turn to hurry back out the door with my scalopine in my shopping bag, his gruff voice follows me:

“Are you going to cook that stuff?”

© Sandra Shaw Homer, 2015

Photo by Marten Jager

Photo by Marten Jager

About SSH

Philadelphia native and graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and Cornell, Shaw Homer has lived in Costa Rica for over 30 years, where she has taught languages and worked for environmental NGOs. In addition to writing for the local press, her fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry have appeared in both print and on-line literary and travel journals, as well as on her blog, Her travel memoir, Letters from the Pacific, received excellent Kirkus and Publishers Weekly reviews. Her most recent book is Evelio’s Garden: Memoir of a Naturalist in Costa Rica. She and all her books can be found at

2 thoughts on “Veal Scaloppine

  1. Marten Jager says:

    I really like the tension you evoke in this everyday encounter; from the tapping of feet, to the reluctance to make eye contact. I like how you walked in with a recipe you’d never attempted before to have meat cut by a guy who has probably been doing it his whole life – it creates an interesting contrast.

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