Cured Ham

I watched from behind the glass as they entered the deli that Saturday morning. An attractive thirty-something couple shopping for deli meats. These types of visits were always exciting for me. Prosciutto--after all--is no ordinary cold cut. If a thirty-something couple orders proscuitto, they're not taking me home to make a sandwiches between UFC bouts. No. They're having a dinner party--serving me under the most civilized of conditions, perhaps with melon slices. As an appetizer. The possibility thrilled me.

I was laying there in my usual, prominent spot in the refrigerated showcase-right between the Genoa Salami and the Mortadella. I overheard the woman call her husband Ken. They chatted for a moment and then pointed straight at me. Bingo. I was going to the show.

Harvey was the butcher's assistant. In an older era, he'd have been known as an apprentice-despite never having met Donald Trump. When he was finally able to snap Harvey out of his recurring fantasy day dream-that of working as the mascot for the New York Yankees farm team-Ken stepped up to the counter.

"Twelve slices of proscuitto please."

A reasonable request by any reasonable standards. But neither Harvey nor his standards were known for being reasonable. I knew what was coming next but wouldn't have warned Ken even if I'd been able. It was too much fun watching the situation unfold.

"We don't sell deli meats by the slice." said Harvey.

"How do you sell them?"

"By the ounce."

Ken looked a little puzzled. He turned toward his wife and raised an eyebrow.

"Can you cut twelve slices, weigh them and then charge me by the ounce for what you've cut?" Again, another reasonable request.

"No. I told you--we don't sell it by the slice." Harvey seemed to be getting impatient. Ken sensed he was fighting a losing battle and quickly tried another tack.

"I don't suppose you know how much a slice weighs?"

"Depends. Different meats, different weights." This was Harvey's attempt to sound intelligent. Ironically, it almost did. Ironically, Harvey had no idea why.

"How about prosciutto?" asked Ken

"How thick?"

"Uhm... I dunno... normal prosciutto thickness. How thick do you normally slice it?"

"Normally? I dial in a '3' on the slicer."

"Ok. How much does one '3' slice of prosciutto weigh?"

"Hard to say. Half an ounce. Quarter maybe."

Doing some quick mental math-the type Harvey would need a month of tutoring and a calculator to figure out-Ken replied.

"Ok. Give me eight ounces please."

"Eight ounces prosciutto coming up." Harvey chirped feeling as if he'd triumphed over all of Yuppi-dom.

"Oh and would you let me know when you've cut twelve slices."

"Sure thing."

Harvey proceeded to slice while Ken chatted with his wife-presumably speculating on the exact number of minutes Harvey had been deprived of oxygen during birth. Harvey lifted me onto the slicer, clamped me in place and fired up the rotating blade. Oddly, I never really feared the slicer-this owing at least partially to my lack of a brain stem and related neurological tissue. When the twelfth slice had fallen, Harvey turned to Ken.

"Twelve slices."

"What does that weigh?" Ken asked.

"Six point eight ounces."

"I've changed my mind. I'd like six point eight ounces please."

"So you don't want eight?" Harvey asked incredulously.

"No. Six point eight is exactly what I want."

"Alrighty then."

Harvey placed Ken's twelve slices of me in a bag, sealed it with a price tag sticker and passed it across the counter to Ken.

"Here you go sir."

"Thanks." said Ken. "Have a great day."