I took a deep breathe, and launched into my well-rehearsed query on the kind of life the beasts, both great and small, live before they reach our table, in particular, whether they are fed antibiotics. We are learning that just as the Irish language has a tense that doesn’t correspond to anything we are familiar with, and the gift of Blarney extends to not really answering a question. The fellow couldn’t say for sure whether these particular beasts here had never had an infection or been treated. But, chimes in the neighbor fellow who is holding down his own stool, the chickens, they wouldna have any. Indeed, agrees the butcher, and launches into his own beef, the state of what the Americans do to their poor animals, puttin’ them on huge concrete pads in the desert and not even feeding them grass like we do our creatures. It’s no wonder they have to pump them full of medications. And hormones, well, now just don’t get him stared on that.
Sensing a lull, I nod, and tell him I’ll take a chicken. He bags it, places it on the counter, and tells me it is twelve Euro. A fair price.
As I dig in my wallet, the Stool Sitter asks me who I think will win the election, and that can of worms spilled onto the ground. More discussion and head-shaking. “Don’t the Americans care what the rest of the world thinks?” “I think that it’s not that Americans don’t care, it’s that they’re unaware that the rest of the world thinks differently.” “Ach, an insular attitude. Dangerous, that.”
And so on. The price of the chicken magically drops two Euro, the bill changes hands, and I finally make my escape. The chicken has already been roasted and curried, and the bones will make a healing soup for our common head colds. But I will be back to this market. The discussion will continue, and besides, I didn’t even get to the chocolate man yet.
