Marlow & Daughters
Walking into Marlow & Daughters on Broadway just shy of Berry, I am tempted to be a cocky bastard and ask if they do, in fact, know which rib to cut for a roast. Then I lay my eyes on the display case. Crimsons, velvety Bordeaux and deep port wine stains marbled with ivory fat and pearly white bones- a carnivore’s watercolor. I am giddy, in love with the marvelous world of meat, at once a lusty teenager and shy child all over again. Knives hang from the walls, Neil Young bleeds from the speaker, and right there, in front of me, on an enormous butcher block table, is a giant hock of meat, tickled to slivers by a nimble lady butcher. She is strong, her thick hands moving quickly and with ease, as though slicing warm butter. Her apron is mottled with blood, her eyes deep in concentration.
Andrew Dorsey, a late twenty-something, stocky bearded blonde, examines me from across the display case. At first, he is quiet, muted in a navy sweatshirt, wary of my presence. Once I tell him though, that a butcher from one neighborhood over seems to have some beef with his work, Dorsey is quick to invite me back to the walk-in fridge.
Have you ever been inside a butcher’s walk-in? Have you ever seen hundreds of pounds of uncut meat, hanging on hooks, bodily definition still distinguishable? Legs, ribs, shoulders? All you can see, at first, is how red everything is, how the bones jut out at you in the small cold metal box of the walk-in. And then you begin to adjust. Two plucked chickens, prickled as though they were a bit chilly, sit off to the side. They are plump, bowling bag-sized with soft, fleshy skins, such a far cry from the sad, yellowed birds at Lou’s. There’s meat everywhere, most on hooks, some boxed up in large, rectangular containers labeled “Sweet” (as in “sweetbreads,” of course) and “ Ribs.” There are price tags on some of the more broken down cuts, $275 for what looks like a whole, rolled breast of lamb.
Lou the Butcher told me that these guys get their meat in plastic wrap, just like he does. Dorsey, calm as ever, counters the charge. “We essentially, know the animal from birth,” Dorsey says, nodding at the hanging meat. “We know the farm it comes from, we pick out the animals, and then have them sent to a processing plant, where they break it down for us.” I stare sideways for a moment at a rib cage several times my width. If the processing plant sends them back cuts so large, I can only imagine about how big the whole animal must be.
The guy to talk to at Marlow & Daughters, though, is TJ Burnham. TJ isn’t an enormous man, but he’s wiry. With his jet-black ponytail sticking out of his chef’s cap, and his sharp-as-knives defined sideburns, he reminds me of many a heavy-metal-loving chef I’ve met. He calmly washes his hands at the metal sink basin, and walks my way. “I was raised doing backyard slaughters in New Mexico,” he tells me, and he looks like it. “I worked in the culinary arts, in kitchens, and then doing this…it came in a round-about way.
So how can Lou sell his meat so cheap? “There’s a lot of licensing that you need, from the Ag-Market [The New York Department of Agriculture and Markets]. Our meat is really easy to track down, it’s all USDA stamped, and it helps that we’re getting it from people we actually know. The whole smoked and aged meats thing, that’s a whole different set of licenses.” Both butchers seem to agree that Lou’s misfortune probably stems from different licensing, or perhaps his clientele, or even his too-low pricing. At Marlow & Daughters, though, the $32 per pound veal medallion might tell their Land Rover driving clientele all they need to know.
Their produce displays are gorgeous, worthy of a Vermeer still life. $5.99 for a liter of organic whole milk with cream on top. $7.99 for a liter of the most delicious looking, creamy maple flavored organic yogurt. Another $7.99 for a dozen organic, cage-free eggs. “We have three restaurants [of our own] that we have to supply,” TJ reminds me, “plus others, and we also have our network of farmer friends, and then their friends who supply our organic produce. If we know that one of our friends is having an animal sent to be processed, then we piggyback and send a lamb to be processed as well. We work with a transportation company that specializes in locally raised animals, local farming, farm-to-table stuff. The whole network of us use them. It’s like a meat carpool.”
This must be priciest daycare you’ll find for something dead. I realize that I could easily drain my entire bank account in the store in just one go, in probably under twenty minutes. I find myself justifying the expense; you wouldn’t send your child to a half-assed daycare. You would want them to be in the best hands. Marlow & Daughters is going that extra mile on all counts. “We use everything,” TJ says. “The bones are used for stocks, and the scraps for dog food.” Well, if you want to eat ethically, and you want your children to eat ethically, then dammit, your dog should be eating ethically too, at $6 a pint.
The lady butcher is still slicing up those Flintstone-sized ribs. I admire the beauty of the meat, of its healthy pink hues, of the humbling experience before me. “It’s funny,” she says, “parents come in here with their kids, and when the kids come over to the butcher block, the parents cover their eyes. And then they go right over to the glass case and let the kids pick out pork chops and steaks. Harumph.” And then they probably leave the store and drive off in daddy’s Land Rover, like the one parked outside. For the rest of us, Marlow & Daughters is a religious experience, a rare, special occasion––pure, like an old fashioned Christmas.
Savory Slave 