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The bustling city life is bright, flashy, attractive. Jarring. Overwhelming, like a tidal wave of light, of noise, of curiosities. It sucks Jiung in and spits him back out instantaneously, spins him about in its gravity like a black hole.
It’s addicting. And it’s tiring.
Jiung misses home, the way the sunlight streamed into his childhood bedroom through the threadbare curtains covering the room’s singular window, the rusty charcoal grill his family only used on holidays, his mother’s cooking. He misses her lessons on finding the ripest and sweetest fruits at the farmer’s markets, misses the way she let him lick raw batter off the spatula they used to bake brownies, her special method of preparing filet mignon when it was his birthday.
Only a month has passed since he’s moved, but it feels like a lifetime and a half. Before boarding his flight, Jiung’s father had reassured him that it would be good to grow roots somewhere other than with them. People don’t grow when they’re at home, he’d said. Home is a place of comfort, of routine, of the same-old-same-old Jiung’s lived for the past nineteen years of his life.
There’s no comfort or routine for him in this city. Not even since university started two weeks ago, not when he’s still trapped in the limbo between wanting to explore and make new connections and wanting to hole up and cry himself to sleep.
He gets a text from his younger brother, who’s still in secondary school but is already thinking of following his big brother’s footsteps and moving far away from home to further his education, asking if he’s met any new friends. Or if Jiung’s enjoying in the city. Or if he’s lonely.
I’m alright, and it’s so easy to lie over a text, too easy for Jiung to lie to his sibling because what kind of brother would he be if he didn’t do all he could to support his little brother’s aspirations?
It’s very loud, but very exciting.
I met a woman with seven toes on her left foot yesterday, right after a math lecture.
I still haven’t found a restaurant that serves decent pot roast, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.
How are you and Mom and Dad?
Do you guys miss me, too?
He deletes the last text before sending it. He’s only been here for a month. It’d be a bit sad to admit defeat this early, even though he’d sell a kidney to shout criticisms at the professional bakers on the TV—who really should be better at fondant work—with his dad, one more time.
Do you have anything planned for your 20th? his mother asks over the phone after Jiung calls her for the third time of the week.
Jiung tells her that he’s really very busy with schoolwork, he hasn’t had the chance to think of it and it really isn’t all that important to him. It’s just a birthday.
But he notices how worried his mom’s goodbye sounds before ending the call. Jiung would hate for them to think he’s not enjoying his time overseas—they’ve spent so much time, effort, and money to get him here, it wouldn’t be right to spit the opportunity in the face.
So, on the morning of his twentieth birthday, Jiung shoves a baseball cap over his head and navigates his way through the metropolitan city sidewalks in search of a butcher’s shop.
The nearest butcher’s shop is a mile down the block from his apartment, but the trip feels like it’s at least three. Saturdays in the city are always busy, with college students and families and industrious individuals all mulling about in the mid-morning sun that doesn’t tan Jiung’s skin, only tinges it with a light shade of pink. He pushes the shop’s door open, grunting with slight effort as the weathered wood of the bottom of the frame gets jammed against the door jam.
The shop’s bell rings above his head. Three workers clad in dark brown, body-length aprons and long gloves are hacking away at numerous cuts of meat from behind a deli case that showcases the varieties of meat available for purchase. One of the three workers raises her head from her current task: separating the shank off a lamb’s shoulder.
“Grab a number,” she gruffly greets, voice muffled behind a mask and her breath fogging up the lower portion of her glasses. “We’ll be right with you.”
There’s a roll of raffle tickets hanging on a screw nailed into the wall next to the door. Jiung carefully tears away the ticket at the end of the roll, 07734, and shuffles off to the side so as to not block the door. His shoes glide across the linoleum, which has been recently waxed. The shiny floor seems out of place in the aged establishment—reflective and smooth, unlike the paint chipping off the walls, revealing the brick underneath, or the ceiling fan lazily spinning above his head that does little to circulate any air in the room. Jiung pockets his ticket and takes out his phone, turning it on to find three texts waiting for him.
All three are from his family, wishing him a happy birthday. A smile wiggles its way into the student’s face, no matter how cheesy and corny the combination of celebratory emojis his dad sent may seem. It’s familiar. His smile wobbles precariously. Jiung misses them something awful.
“Ticket 07734!”
Jiung slips his phone back into his back pocket with a startle. Hastily, he wipes at his lower eyelids and steps up to the counter, though the shop isn’t that busy at all.
“How can I help you?”
The voice doesn’t belong to the woman from earlier, but to the employee wiping his knife on a rag tucked into his apron strings. He’s the youngest worker, probably around university age, and has kind, expressive eyes that showcase the smile Jiung can’t see from behind his mask.
“Sir?”
Hearing such a formal address from someone his age is strange to the student. A strange form of address in a strange old butcher’s chop in a strange city. He shifts his weight between his two feet and bites his lower lip.
“I’m looking for some steak.” He pauses, trying to remember what his mother would ask their local butcher when they ordered meat. “Do you have any prime cuts?”
The worker eagerly nods. “We got a nice stack of ribeyes this morning.” He walks them over to the very left deli case, where—true to his word—a thick stack of ribeye steaks are refrigerated. “You’re in luck.”
Jiung leans over to better inspect the cuts. A few of the pieces look more well-marbled compared to others.
“Do you see any you like?”
None of the steaks look quite like the ones his mother brought home. Jiung frowns. “Can you separate them a little bit? I’m trying to compare their—“ what had his mom called them? “—caps?”
The worker’s eyebrows shoot up. “You know about cap steaks?”
Jiung may be completely in over his head in the city, but if there’s one thing he’s grown to know, it’s meat. He straightens and meets the butcher’s look of shock with a flat stare.
“Yes?”
The worker huffs a weak laugh. “Sorry. It’s just—people don’t always know what they’re looking for when they come in here.” He reaches into the case with a pair of tongs and separates the stack of ribeyes. “That okay?”
“The cuts are uneven,” Jiung blurts before he can stop himself.
This earns him another noise or surprise. “Hey! I did those!”
“Well, you didn’t do a great job—don’t you see how thin the eye is compared to the cap on that one?”
Jiung crosses his arms. “Uneven cuts introduce uneven cooking into the equation. Have you ever tried grilling a steak with a one-inch eye and quarter-inch cap? By the time the eye’s cooked through, the cap is burnt to a crisp!”
“You sure know an awful lot about meat.”
“Not to mention the inconsistency of the steaks,” Jiung barges on, pointing at one steak with right hand and at another with his left, “I mean, look at the differences in the spinalis!”
“Spinalis?”
“The cap. Spinalis. They’re the same thing.” The student sticks his hands in his pockets with a sigh. “The marbling is off, too. Some cuts have lots of marbling, others not so much, which will alter the tasting experience of the steak. Marbling creates tenderness within the meat, and lack of it can cause dryness and toughness. Do you think the marbling on these are good?”
The worker gulps. “I, uh—“
“They’re not,” Jiung finishes for him. “Sure, the pieces may be thick, but that’s about all they have to write home about.”
The butcher’s shop goes quiet as soon as Jiung finishes his tirade. The other workers have stopped their cutting in favor of staring at the two of them. A flush works its way onto Jiung’s cheeks when he realizes they’re not staring at their fellow worker, but are staring at him.
The guy helping Jiung clears his throat.
“Yeah?”
“I might have some cuts in the back,” he meekly suggests. “Do you wanna see those?”
Cuts in the back. That’s where they must keep their best pieces. Probably for their customers with more expensive tastes. But it’s Jiung’s birthday. He decides he can splurge a little bit on some decent steak. “Sure.”
The worker ducks behind the kitchen door separating the butchery from the rest of the establishment. Jiung watches him through the large glass window looking into the butchery, a satisfied huff leaving his nose when he sees the worker reaching into an ice box for a slab of meat with beautiful graining. It’s hefty, if the flexing of the veins in the worker’s forearms are anything to go by.
He brings the meat to Jiung. “She’s a beaut, isn’t she? Expensive as hell, too.”
“Well, I don’t need all of that. I just need enough for one serving.”
The worker’s astonishment isn’t much appreciated by Jiung. “One serving? Who buys meat for one person? Steak of this grade is meant to be a meal shared with, I don’t know, someone special!”
Jiung hasn’t exactly had the time or the energy to find someone to share his meals with. He glares at the worker defensively. “What if I just wanted to enjoy a steak by myself?”
“No one spends that kind of money on meat for themselves!”
“Maybe I do! Isn’t the customer always right, anyway?”
But he doesn’t want to enjoy it by himself. Not that he’d admit it to the thick-skulled worker.
The worker sniffs and shakes his head. “Not always.”
“Just cut the meat, dude,” Jiung sighs, tired.
Thankfully, the worker complied with only a sad look cast in Jiung’s direction. He cuts a thin slice off the slab and holds it up for the student to inspect.
“Better.” Jiung nods, appreciating the even marbling of the ribeye and thick cap attached to it. The worker must’ve worked harder at making the cut neater, too. He suddenly feels bad for yelling at him. “Thanks,” he quietly tacks on.
The worker hums. “Happy to help, um, …”
Jiung blinks at his expectant look. “You need something?”
The worker’s hairnet slips lopsided when he turns his chin down to let out a soft laugh. “I’m trying to ask for your name.”
“My name? Why?”
“You look new,” the worker’s eyes skate up and down Jiung’s figure, “and you seem sad.”
Jiung scoffs. “I’m not sad.”
The worker holds his gloved hands up in surrender. “Hey, I totally get it—moving to a big city is scary as shit. I’m assuming you’re here for uni, right? And you’re all alone in this crazy place, which is weird since there’s so many people, but they’re all equally crazy so you’re scared of getting to know them?”
The student wordlessly nods, speechless at the other’s precise analysis.
“You look like you need a friend,” the worker continues, packaging Jiung’s purchase in brown butcher paper. He deftly ties a string of twine around the package of meat and sets it on the scale by the register.
Jiung’s jaw drops. “We just fought about ribeye cap steak and spinalis for two minutes, and you want to be friends?”
The worker removes his gloves to type in the weight of the meat in their register. The machine dings! and a set of blinking green numbers pops up on the LED display facing Jiung. “That’ll be $15.98. And yeah, why not?”
“Why not?” But Jiung struggles to come up with a valid reason for rejecting the worker’s offer.
“You like meat, I like meat, you know tons about steak, I love learning tons about steak, what's more perfect than that?”
“Shouldn’t you be more knowledgeable about steak? Isn’t that your job?”
The worker pulls his mask down, revealing a shit-eating grin that sends unexpected tingles down Jiung’s spine. “I’m an apprentice butcher, I’m still learning!”
“Please give him some tips,” the older female worker grouches from the other case. “He’s hopeless.”
“Hey!”
Jiung can’t help but laugh at the worker’s offended expression. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows drawn together in a perfect frown, his lips pouted. He’s kind of adorable.
He points a finger at Jiung. “See! I made you laugh—isn’t that a great quality to have?”
“She’s right, you are hopeless,” Jiung tells him. “I bet even I could grill a steak better than you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Put your money where your mouth is.”
“What?”
“Cook me a steak.” The worker sticks his hand out, and to Jiung’s surprise, it’s just the tiniest bit smaller than his own. His skin is tanned just short of golden, a stark contrast to Jiung’s pale complexion. “And I’ll cook you one. Then we’ll see who’s better.”
“Hm. What does the winner get?”
“A well-cooked steak?”
Jiung rolls his eyes, yet his chest swells at the prospect of a home-cooked meal—though it may not turn out to be anything close to his mother’s. But he decides that he’d like to try, anyway.
His hand finds its way into the other’s. They shake on it.
“I’m Intak, by the way.”
Jiung hands Intak his credit card. “Go ahead and charge me double what I just ordered. Get a nice steak that’s easy to cook—I won’t be going easy on you.” He smiles. “Intak.”
“Do I get to know your name?” Intak rings Jiung up and holds the card back out to him. “And the date of our cook off?”
“Jiung.” Jiung takes his card back with a snicker. “There’s a grill in the parking lot of my apartment complex—it’s just down the street. Ugly blue awnings. Hard to miss. Feel free to swing by tonight at about seven.”
“Seven,” Intak repeats, a smile on his lips. “I’ll be there, Jiung.”
“It’s a date.”
Intak turns bright red. Jiung realizes the implication of his words.
“I have to go,” he exclaims in a rush, “see you tonight?”
He’s out of the butcher’s shop as fast as his feet will take him, Intak’s resounding “yes” bouncing around in his head.
Jiung’s mother calls him the next day.
“Did you do anything for your birthday? Spend it with anyone?”
Jiung glances at the pile of plates and utensils and glasses in his sink, currently being washed by the loser of the previous night’s cook off. Intak’s humming a little bit, some song Jiung recognizes from his childhood. The humming isn’t half bad. Pleasant, maybe.
“I did.”
“Who?” She sounds excited. It makes Jiung smile.
“Someone who’s a lousy cook.”
Intak looks over his shoulder and sends Jiung an affronted gasp. That makes him laugh. Intak’s cooking, much like his humming, isn’t half bad. Decent, even.
“But maybe my judgment is too harsh. No one’s cooking can measure up to yours, Mom.”
“Silly boy. Don’t be too hard on your friend, they’re already cooking for you—that would make any food taste delicious.”
Sunlight filters in through the window above the kitchen sink, filling the room with a soft yellow glow. Intak carefully, meticulously dries the dishes. Much like how he cut the ribeyes yesterday. Maybe he’s just that kind of person—the type that cares an awful lot.
“You’re right, Mom,” Jiung realizes. “Dad was, too.”
“Your father was right? About what?”
He shakes his head, albeit fond. “It’ll be good to grow roots here.”