My Life In Brooklyn

I’ve seen a lot of street vendors I’ll dub as “interesting” during the five years I have lived in the neighborhood.  I’ve seen guys walking around with plastic garbage bags full of ukuleles ($5) and little concertinas (different guy, but also $5).  A number of times I’ve seen an assortment of vehicles, including one with T & LC tags, suddenly pull over to the west side of Flatbush, near the Fenimore intersection, pop the trunk and pull out goat carcasses.  And out of seemingly nowhere, people appear and collect the goats, loading them into their own cars.  It is typically a two-minute transaction.  The first time it was observed I was a little surprised, but it is far from unusual.

This Saturday afternoon I headed over to Associated on Flatbush to pick up a couple of items.

Something was happening that was Different.  I could see a couple of guys approach pedestrians as they headed toward Associated, and while my first thought might have turned to panhandlers, these guys were wearing what appeared to be white lab coats.  The medical center located at that very location had moved to Clarkson already, so this was curious. 

Approaching them, I heard the pitch.  They were selling meat.  Out of the back of a large maroon van.  No one appeared to be interested in looking at the meat in the back of the van, and as I got closer I rather hoped they would ask me, because I wanted to see what the deal was. But no one did, and instead, I just went to the store and picked up what I needed.

On the way home, no more than 10 minutes later, the guys in the white lab coats — excuse, me I think they were meant to be butcher’s coats — approached me

You like meat?” one guy asked me.

What are you selling?” I asked.

Come here and have a look,” white jacket said, ushering me to be back of the van.

He opened the van.  Inside was the largest Styrofoam cooler I have ever seen.  It filled the back of the van, the top was off and, indeed, it was filled to the brim with meat.

What are you doing selling meat on the street?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, I have a permit,” white coat told me.  “You like lamb chops?”

“Where did this meat come from?” I asked white coat.

“Omaha Steaks” white coat told me.  “You know that meat that you get in the mail?  You know that meat?” 

I nodded.

Why do those cardboard boxes say Burlington, NJ?” I asked him. 

White coat didn’t flinch.  “Because Omaha Steaks owns that plant in NJ, they actually OWN Omaha Steaks”, he added emphatically.

“Okay, so what about the lamb chops,” I asked. 

White coat lifted up a package and showed it to me. “They come in packs of 10,” he said.

“How much does it weigh?” I asked.

“Here,” you hold it and you can tell.  White coat handed me the package.  I held it for a few seconds.  Clearly no one knew the weight of anything packaged in that cooler.

“So how much?” I asked.

“Only $25,” White Coat said.

“Way too much,” I said.

“You know how much these cost?” he said.

“I was just in the store, I know how much they cost,” I told him. White coat immediately countered with $20 for the package.

“Still too high,” I said, looking in the cooler.  “What else have you got?”

Turns out they had quite a variety.  Fish, steaks, and pork chops that I was able to see.  All conveniently priced at $25 a package, though I am confident $15 would have been possible with very little effort.

“Don’t think this is going to work for me today,” I told him.  But it didn’t matter because someone else had shown some interest and White Coat was no longer paying any attention to me.  Perhaps it was too obvious I wasn’t a paying customer.

So a new one for me.  I can’t imagine they had a permit to sell meat on Flatbush Avenue out of the back of a van.  Who knows the origin — Omaha Steaks is unlikely.

I do, however, give them major points for the butcher/lab coats.  Good for the credibility factor. Nice touch.