Our Man in the Province Went to the Meat Jeweler
He ate out several times a week, was always looking for the tastiest herring, most enjoyable wine, juiciest hamburger or best meat thermometer. But then journalist Marcel Langedijk swapped Amsterdam for the Province. Is it bearable there for a lover of good food and drink? As long as there are butchers like Bert-Jan, it is.
‘Do you know what else they have, in the province?’ the butcher asked me as I wandered around his shop, looking for some Saturday afternoon snacks. A confusing question from a butcher, I thought, because they mostly ask about a few ounces more or less, loyalty stamps and, oh dear, what terrible weather today, right? I was just about to mutter something cheeky about ‘peace and quiet’, ‘farmers’ and ‘bad taste in clothes’, but he beat me to it, explained that he read my columns and said: ‘Come with me.’ We walked to the back, the butcher’s holy of holies. Four men in white coats were doing butcher things, but the butcher himself had already walked on to a huge door that turned out to be the cold room. ‘Take a look,’ said the butcher, whose name was Bert-Jan, ‘doesn’t that make you happy?’
Japanese Kagoshima Wagyu A5+ BMS12
It did. In the freezing cold of the ice-white room stood ceiling-high shelving units, neatly lined up next to one another. Those shelves were packed with meat. Bert-Jan began explaining, showed me things, pointed things out, pressed 250 grams of frozen meat into my hands. I read: Cap of ribeye Japanese Kagoshima Wagyu A5+ BMS12. Bert-Jan said: ‘This is unbelievably delicious. The best there is. Just look at that fat. Look at it. LOOK AT IT!’ I looked, moved and mildly frightened by his enthusiasm, and almost forgot that I had come here for some simple but nutritious quality snacks with which to treat my upcoming visitors from Amsterdam. If it were up to Bert-Jan, they wouldn’t be getting salad, grilled sausage or chicken wings today, but a cap of ribeye from Japan. A piece of meat whose fat already starts melting at thirty degrees Celsius, Bert-Jan said as he walked on to the next shelving unit.
Except on the Wadden Islands
Look, picanhas from America, but also from Argentina and Spain. Limburg pork from Limburg, naturally, but also meat from Hungary, Australia and Austria. I couldn’t think of anything too outlandish for Bert-Jan not to have it on his shelves. And not just some random meat from a vague producer, mind you, Mr. Columnist: Bert-Jan knew all those people personally and had even done an internship in South America for a year. He knows what he brings in, you see. And so do you, dear reader, because—and now came the best part—Bert-Jan said everyone can order it from him. Simply, online. And if you order before 11 in the morning, you’ll have it at home that same day. Except if you live on the Wadden Islands, Bert-Jan said, but that was because of the boat, you know.
It’s on me
I knew that, yes, the bit about the boat, but by then I was also freezing cold, partly because of the 250 grams of A5+ BMS12 from Japan I was holding. I handed it back to Bert-Jan. He refused to take it. ‘It’s on me,’ he said, ‘just give it a try.’ After some pointless protesting on my part, we left the cold room and went back into the shop. While paying for some salads, grilled sausage and chicken wings—meeting visitors from Amsterdam without chicken wings is a mortal sin—I protested once more. That this really wasn’t possible. Bert-Jan was resolute. ‘At least now you know what we have here, in the province. Write that down.’
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