Muscle Memory

It’s when he’s addressing the subject of why, exactly, he chooses to pack his prosciutto in a mixture of salt and sodium nitrate that Morgan Maki starts to show his true colors. The explanation takes over 10 minutes and does two things: (1) it reveals on a molecular level how the nitrate turns to nitrite and bonds with the iron in the pig’s hemoglobin in order to prevent oxidation and preserve color, among other things, and (2) it impresses upon me that, lest there be any doubt, here is a man who knows his shit. 

Morgan Maki is a butcher and charcutier of Bi-Rite Market. He populates his counter with freshly cut, farm-sourced meats and delicious salamis, bacons, patés, terrines, and more that are prepared in-house. But as Morgan’s voluminous knowledge implies, this is no mere job; it is his calling. Born in New Orleans, raised in Missouri, schooled in Vermont, mentored in Montana, and now having come into his own in San Francisco, Morgan was working with food even before he decided to forgo college for a gig in a kitchen. 

Perhaps this same, limitless enthusiasm for his work, which at times blossoms into full-throated, protein-based zealotry, convinced Morgan to let me tag along with him on a typical Thursday. That, or maybe he knew I’d be happy to shoulder the weight of a day’s scut work.

Despite watching far too much of the Food Network during senior year of college, my actual experience in a professional kitchen is functionally zilch. So I am delighted to stay mum in my corner, listening as the constant chatter about food mixes with a never-ending, bilingual game of the Dozens, played with great relish by the tight-knit staff. Morgan particularly revels in his banter with Sergio, the charmingly insolent sous chef who can curse in two languages simultaneously. As we drop our meat-covered tools in the sink next to Sergio, Morgan reveals his friend’s Achilles’ heel: silence. “Just ignore the sarcastic comments and he’ll get so pissed,” he confides. We do and sure enough, Sergio appears near our station moments later, fuming and spewing filth. Morgan grins.

I finish with the beef and move on to grinding pork, mixing in spice kits heavy on sage and cayenne. We are making sausages and, clichés be damned, I’m happy to report that you would be delighted to watch. Once it’s ground up, paddled in an enormous mixer and loaded into a hand-cranked extruder, the pork is fed into prewashed lamb and hog casings (aka intestines) to become breakfast and andouille sausages.

Both casings come floating in liquid to keep them fresh, and when submerged, the gnarly cilia on the hog are very apparent. Morgan laughs as he remembers once ordering casings au natural – over the salesman’s objections. The resulting delivery had to be “squeezed out,” bathed with bleach solution, turned inside out, and scraped with razors. “It was awful,” says Morgan, slowly losing his smile. “ But it was a good experiment too. I’m never doing that again!”

Regardless of whether you are a vegan, eat according to halal tradition, or subsist on baleen, it is an objective fact that Morgan breaks down a lamb with a skill that verges on artistry. First he uses a large knife and a hacksaw to separate the 42 pounds of animal into four “primal” cuts: shoulder, rack, loin, and leg. These are then further processed with a dizzying display of knife work as Morgan slices in deep, then “pulls back” on the blade for precision. Morgan can even butcher with his bare hands, tearing sections of the animal apart at seemingly invisible seams and performing “gravity” cuts that let meat fall away from the bone. All the while, he delivers a running commentary that contains explanations of technique, little known tidbits of physiology, and suggestions for preparation. Soon the big lamb has disappeared, replaced by an orderly stack of appetizing cuts ready for the table.

At the end of the day I am surprised by how quickly time has passed. I bring a pan of freshly butchered lamb into the walk-in and realize that the beef I ground earlier has been moved into the case out front. The cycle is complete, at least for a tourist like me. I shed my Bi-Rite togs, shake hands with my new friends, and head out into the night smelling like bacon. Morgan remains at his post, breaking down the last of the prosciutto and ordering more product for tomorrow. He smells like bacon too.