by
NARR: Miro Rames sits on a stool outside the swinging double doors of the business he started 35 years ago, here on Manhattan's far west side. A painted wooden sign on the brick wall next to him reads "Walmir Meat" and below that, "Daily Cuts of Fresh Beef." The sign will be gone next week.
TAPE1: MIRO
[MIRO RAMES1]: TOMORROW IS MY LAST DAY. THE LAST SHIPMENT CAME YESTERDAY…. AND ALMOST THE WHOLE THING IS OUT, BY NOW. BY MONDAY OR TUESDAY I THINK THIS MEAT PLANT IS GOING TO BE DRY, EMPTY. (:14)
NARR: The entrance to Walmir's is a pair of swinging doors that open directly from the sidewalk into the cold cutting room. The room is a long rectangle, cement-floored and flourescent-lit. Broad quarters of meat hang on fierce looking hooks, suspended from a system of rails and rollers.
(AMBI1: CLANKING OF HOOKS ON RAILS)
NARR: Today the hooks and rails carry the final load of hindquarters, the one delivered yesterday. A meat cutter - a railman, he's called - pushes one of the long poles out to the sidewalk as Rames looks on.
[SOUND UP: MIRO RAMES2]: THAT'S A QUALITY BEEF.
NARR: From the hooks hang half a dozen large pieces of meat and bone - loins of beef, a section cut from behind a steer's rib. These will be porterhouse steaks - as many as 15 from each loin.
[SOUND UP: MIRO RAMES3]: YOU CAN'T BUY THAT IN THE BOXES.
NARR: You can't buy that in boxes. For Rames, that statement says everything: why he's closing, and what's lost. Rames started in butchering the week after he arrived in the U.S. from Croatia 45 years ago. Then the business was carcass beef - or hanging beef, or meat on hooks as the men down here call it. For that old system, boxes are the death knell. Historian Roger Horowitz says it started tolling decades ago.
TAPE: ROGER HOROWITZ
HOROWITZ: BEGINNING IN THE 1970S AN INNOVATION CALLED BOXED BEEF BEGAN TO REPLACE WHAT WAS CALLED THE SWINGING CARCASS. (:08)
NARR: Horowitz says a company in the Midwest called IBP - then known as Iowa Beef Processors - started a new system. It broke down meat in the place where the animals were slaughtered, instead of sending carcasses fresh and on hooks. Boxed beef means vacuum packed individual cuts. They'll keep for as long as eight weeks.
TAPE: ROGER HOROWITZ
HOROWITZ: THEY BONED THE CATTLE OUT IN THEIR PLANTS IN IOWA, KANSAS, MISSOURI… AND SHIPPED BOXES OF BEEF TO WAREHOUSES IN MAJOR CITIES. (:11)
NARR: One of the biggest effects was on labor. Boxed beef allowed a shift away from the skilled, unionized butchers in places like New York's meatpacking district. It ushered in the relatively unskilled nonunion workforce that is the hallmark of today's meatpacking industry. Meatpacking workers in the Midwestern plants work on routinized disassembly lines. There's no need to learn the whole animal - no need to be a butcher.
[AMBI: STREET NOISE]
NARR: In the Meatpacking District, in the few places where men still know meat, Ray DeStefano is an "old-timer." He started out at a Bronx chicken plant in 1960, and has put in years at Walmir. Tomorrow is his last day as a butcher. He looks out at the street, cluttered with construction equipment. A hotel is going up across the way.
TAPE: RAY DE STEFANO
DE STEFANO: WE USED HAVE COBBLESTONES…. ON THESE STREETS. AND IF THE COBBLESTONES COULD TALK - ALL THE BLOOD THAT WAS SPILT ON THESE COBBLESTONES? (:10)
NARR: According to the 14th Street workers' union, there used to be 3,000 people in this neighborhood who worked in the meathouses - butchers and utility workers and and maintenenance men. Now the number is fewer than 300. DeStefano says there were meat businesses everywhere here.
TAPE: RAY DE STEFANO
DE STEFANO: THAT SIDE, DOWN THE BASEMENT. DOWN THE CORNER. THIS SIDE, ON THE CORNER. ALL MEATHOUSES. EVERY ONE OF THEM. (:09)
NARR: Now, up the street is a high-end boutique called Scoop. Designer Diane von Furstenberg opened her flagship store on nearby 14th Street just last year. The men at Walmir still remember that place as a meathouse called Gashot & Gashot.
[AMBI: WEISCHEL CUTTING FLOOR -- ROTATING SAW, THEN COOLING UNIT AND HOOKS UNDER]
NARR: At Weichsel Beef on West Street, a few blocks away from Walmir Meats, Jilldo Yolovich cuts the ribs of a forequarter of beef with a round-bladed power saw. Weichsel is one of only two carcass houses that will remain in the Meatpacking District once Walmir Meat closes.
[AMBI: SAW UP AGAIN]
[AMBI: KNIFE SHARPENING]
NARR: It's a Monday morning, before dawn. More than 40,000 pounds of beef came in at starting time - 4:00 a.m. - from a slaughterhouse in Aurora, Illinois. The cutting floor is crowded and close with meat.
[SOUND UP (TONY): FRANK, WHERE'S GARDEN OF EDEN - BACK THERE YOU GOT THE RIBS?]
Tony Pezzola and his partner, Yolovich, move among the hanging carcasses. They're rushing to fill orders. Pezzola sends one out for a chain of markets called the Garden of Eden.
[GARDEN OF EDEN, GARDEN OF EDEN - THE RIBS ARE ALL HERE? THEY'RE GOING OUT, RIGHT? THEY'RE GOING OUT. THEY'RE GOING OUT, JOHN?]
NARR: They cut the meat as buyers request it, and they push it down the rails toward the loading dock. The beef arrives here as forequarters and hindquarters. Each piece is strung up by its shank, and swaying on a hook. The pieces are nearly as tall as the men who cut them. Each quarter weighs in the neighborhood of 200 pounds.
In meathouse vernacular, Pezzola and Yolovich are breaking down meat. Pezzola pushes at the joint between the shoulder and leg of one of the forequarters.
[AMBI: LOUD POP]
[TONY: "WHEN IT MAKES THAT NOISE YOU ALREADY HIT THE SOCKET.]
NARR: The work can seem grisly, but this is what it is to be a skilled butcher.
[TONY: IT'S A PERFECT CUT."]
NARR: When it's busy, like this morning, the men glide and dodge, moving quickly around and between the carcasses that hang like lazy pendulums. Pezzola and Yolovich are gray haired and mustached, clad in white aprons that are gaudy with blood and fat. The men have worked together for 30 years.
Now Pezzola stands before the inside architecture of a steer: red muscle and knobby fat, bones visible.
TAPE: TONY PETZOLA
PETZOLA: ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE. (:03)
NARR: He counts off ribs, preparing to separate the rib of beef from the chuck. This piece of meat has been hand picked for Vincent's Meat Market, on Arthur Avenue.
TAPE: TONY PETZOLA
PETZOLA: THIS GUY'S BUYING A BACK OF BEEF. THERE'S 13 RIBS ON THE ANIMAL. ONE STAYS ON THE HINDQUARTER AND THE OTHER'S GOT TWELVE. (:07)
NARR: As he leans in to cut, Pezzola braces himself against the broad, skinned back of the forequarter that hangs behind him.
TAPE: TONY PETZOLA
PETZOLA: ALRIGHT, JUST STAY IN BACK OF ME NOW. [SAW KICKS UP, SOUND OF CUTTING] THAT'S A WHOLE BACK OF BEEF, A WHOLE FOREQUARTER OF BEEF HE GETS. (:07)
NARR: Vincent's has ordered six of these in total - roughly a thousand pounds of meat. Weichsel's owner selected it himself. He considered the grain of the meat - the striation of fat in the muscle - and the size of the ribeye.
[AMBI: SLIDE OF HOOKS ON RAIL]
NARR: Pezzola ushers the cut meat down the rail. The pieces lurch along on their hooks.
NARR: Of the markets and jobbers and restaurants that still get their meat at Weichsel, some say this meathouse for them means survival.
TAPE: JOE TRUGLIO
TRUGLIO: I'M PICKING OUT MY MEAT FOR THE STORE. I COME EVERY DAY. (:05)
NARR: Joe Truglio owns Truglio's Meat Market in Hoboken, New Jersey.
TAPE: JOE TRUGLIO
TRUGLIO: IT'S A SHORT LOIN. IT'S PORTERHOUSE STEAKS.
NARR: He says he's here because he needs good quality meat. He's picking out a short loin, and has a few things in mind as he decides which one to buy.
TAPE: JOE TRUGLIO
TRUGLIO: COLOR AND MARBLING, CONFIRMATION… THE SHAPE OF IT. THE SHAPE OF THE MEAT. (:05)
NARR: He says he couldn't do this if he were buying boxed meat. He wants to come here and see it for himself.
TAPE: JOE TRUGLIO
TRUGLIO: IT'S GOT NICE QUALITY HERE. IT'S A BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF MEAT. (:06)
NARR: Truglio cradles the loin in both arms and carries it to the receiving area.
TAPE: JOE TRUGLIO
TRUGLIO: I'VE GOT CHOICE SHORT LOIN, BOBBY. CHOICE SHORT LOIN.
NARR: Weichsel's customers say they have to think about new ways of getting meat. John Jboggi, of J.T. Jboggi, is in business as a middleman. He sells fresh meat to customers like the Four Seasons, and gets some of his supply at Weichsel. His office is nearby, across the street from Walmir.
TAPE: JOHN JBOGGI
JBOGGI: I STILL RELY ON THESE GUYS FOR FRESH MEAT. SO IF I LOSE THEM, I'LL HAVE TO REPLACE THEM, BUT IT WON'T BE AS GOOD. (:08)
NARR: He says he'll have to buy in boxes, and that means he can't be as discriminating.
TAPE: JOHN JBOGGI
JBOGGI: WHAT'S IN THE BOX IS IN THE BOX. IF YOU LOSE THESE GUYS, WHAT YOU'RE LOSING IS THE ABILITY TO GO THERE AND JUST GET WHAT YOU WANT. (:07)
NARR: The story the remaining meat men tell is a story of loss. Not just of quality meat, but of skill and knowledge: the loss of a way of life. These men love the meat business, but the first thing everyone says is - it's over.
TAPE1: TIM DE CAMP
DE CAMP: THE OLD DAYS ARE GONE. 14th STREET IS GONE (:02)
TAPE2: TONY PETZOLA
PETZOLA: NOW IT'S LIKE A GHOST TOWN. (:02)
TAPE3: RAY DE STEFANO
DE STEFANO: THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS MEAT… ANYMORE. (:02)
TAPE 4: WALTER BRENT
BRENT: I GUESS TIMES CHANGE (:01)
NARR: Pezzola, the head butcher at Weichsel, laments the end of the profession he started training for when he was 16 years old.
TAPE: TONY PETZOLA
PETZOLA: THE BUTCHERING BUSINESS TO ME WAS A TRADE. IT WAS AN ART. IT NO LONGER SEEMS LIKE AN ART. BECAUSE NO ONE RECOGNIZES IT NO LONGER. (:07)
[SILENCE]
[FADE UP QUIET COOLING FAN]
NARR: At Walmir Meats the next week, Miro Rames's son - Adam - is minding a quiet meathouse. There's no cutting here today, just a few remaining pieces of meat hanging in the frigid cooler.
TAPE: ADAM RAMES
RAMES: I HAVE FOUR FOREQUARTERS LEFT…. I HAVE… I HAVE 70 PRIME SHORT LOINS. THAT GOES TO PETER LUGER'S STEAK HOUSE. (:11)
NARR: In the end it was a supply problem that did in Walmir. Boxed beef helped to consolidate the meat industry. A lot of independent slaughterhouses that Rames depended on for hanging beef went under. Walmir couldn't get what it needed anymore.
Rames is 35 and he has worked here for 19 years. He says it's the only job he knows, and he's not sure what he'll do next. The short loins for Peter Luger will be Walmir's last big sale.
TAPE: ADAM RAMES
RAMES: I'M JUST GOING TO FINISH MY INVENTORY HERE AND THAT'S IT. THEN I HAVE NOTHING TO SELL AND THAT'S IT, IT'S ALL OVER. (:09)
NARR: Walmir's sign is already propped on its end and leaning against the wall in the empty cutting room. In a few days, when the rails are dry and the stock is gone, Rames says they'll turn off the cooling units. The swinging doors through which the railmen guided so many tons of meat will close for good. One more meathouse will shut down.
Molly Messick, Columbia Radio News.