That time I needed to order
thirty-eight veal chops for the

Society’s dinner,
and figured that nobody would stock

so many, I asked Druzetich
the Butcher, “Can I order

ahead?” “Sure,” he said, with
his grasp of idiom, “no problem.”

He grinned with Hungarian competence:
“What kind of a head?”

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 12 Number 2, on page 38
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