Tasty mutton beats dressed-up lamb

Expensive cuts are not necessarily best

SO, last week, I was standing at my local butcher, waiting for my mutton to be cut into curry pieces.

The butchery was hectic because they were running a litany of specials. But, despite the crowd, their always pleasant staff and I were exchanging some goodhumoured banter while I waited. “You watching MasterChef South

Africa?” Derrick, my favourite staff member, asked while he deftly chopped my meat. “Contestants are sharp this year.”

“True,” I agreed, “but do you think they understand the difference between lamb and mutton, which is a basic if you think about it?”

To which he replied: “The contestants are top shelf. But if they don’t understand the difference … that Indian chick on the show, what’s her name?” “Kamini?” “Ya, same chick! She will teach them,” said Derrick.

“Ya, the Indian chicks know about food,” Derrick’s partner in crime, Julian, chuckled from the other machine where he was busy slicing what looked like lamb chops. “That’s why all the white fellas want Indian girls these days.”

“What kind of meat are you buying?” The somewhat brisk and confrontational question came from a middle-aged lady who had sidled up to me at the counter.

“C-grade mutton,” I replied easily.

“Ceeeeee-grade? You buy Ceeeeee-grade?” she asked, her nasal voice laced with revulsion. You just could not miss her aversion. It was right there, hanging heavier than the smell of raw meat. “Yes, Ceeeeeee-grade,” I replied. Derrick winked at me. “You know me? I will never buy Ceeeeeee-grade,” she blustered on.

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing,” I answered as steadily as I could. Internally, I felt the urge to smack her with the bunch of carrots in her trolley — carrot side up.

“Such a cheap cut of meat that Ceeeeee-grade. Oh, neva!” I bit my tongue. Hard. Derrick rolled his eyes. “In our house, we eat only lamb. Lamb is good quality. Straight from the Karoo,” she carried on with the authority of the Meat Board.

“And where do you think mutton comes from?” I could not help it.

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t come from the Karoo,” she replied with conviction.

“Are you aware that lamb and mutton both come from sheep? The only difference is the age at which the animal was slaughtered. RED-BLOODED: The only difference between mutton and lamb is the age at which the animal is slaughtered Lamb is from a young sheep and mutton from an older sheep. One is not better than the other. It’s just a question of taste,” I explained through gritted teeth.

“We got very good taste in our family. We don’t buy funny-funny cheap things and cook in our house. Only the best we buy,” she declared snootily.

At this point, I could have shut my mouth. I chose the road less travelled.

“Derrick, tell this auntie about the difference between lamb and mutton,” I asked Derrick above the sound of the mean-looking meat slicer.

“See here, auntie, lamb cooks sharp. Mutton takes longer, especially in Johannesburg. But you can’t beat the taste of mutton compared with lamb,” he explained. “If you’ve got an extra one hour, then buy the mutton. If you haven’t got time, then buy the lamb. But, it’s not called mutton curry for nothing, you know?”

“Mutton is a cheaper cut,” she darted back.

“Not always. If you go to the rich areas, mutton is a delicacy. It’s more expensive because the ous there know about quality and taste,” Derrick explained.

“I don’t see why anybody should be telling anybody about what meat to buy. Me, I like my lamb. If other people want to buy cheapcheap things, that’s their problem,” she said sharply.

Derrick clamped his jaws shut.

Julian, who had obviously overheard the conversation, sidled up to the counter.

“Right, auntie, what I can help you with?” he asked.

“Two kilos lamb, but only leg,” she said, while using a crumpled tissue from her handbag to wipe her glasses.

“Visitors you getting, auntie? You making curry?” Julian chatted amiably.

“Ya, my son’s boss is coming for supper tonight,” she replied.

“Nice. White fella?” Julian asked.

“Ya, white fella. But long time Sagren knows him now,” she said.

“Nice to entertain the boss by the house,” Julian said, winking conspiratorially at her.

“It’s not like we doing it for promotion or anything — the way you making it seem,” she smacked back.

“And when you going to cook the trotters [sheep’s feet] and boti [sheep’s stomach] you got in your trolley, auntie? Not nice to keep in the freezer for too long — nice to boil it and use it same time,” Julian advised, looking meaningfully into the bottom section of her trolley.

“No, no, no, no! Not for me I’m buying boti and trotters! For my maid,” she said hastily.

“Auntie, your maid got good taste,” Julian quipped, handing over a parcel with the sliced leg of lamb coupled with another free wink. “Tell her to cook the boti with gram dhall, very nice.”

The “auntie” was not happy. She sniffed at Julian and threw me a dirty look.

“In my life …,” I started as she hurriedly walked away.

“Devi, whole day we see this nonsense,” Derrick said with exasperation. “All these people who come here grew up on offal and whatnot. Now, they want to carry on like they are so high class.”

“Mental ous,” Julian said, shaking his head. “We are who we are. Why put on a show when you are quietly eating the trotters and

boti by the poz?”