Standing outside of the apartment, I clutch a bottle of wine in a brown, paper bag. My knuckles hit the door a couple times and after a few seconds, footsteps approach from the other side. A shadow covers the peephole below the brass number nine on the door, which opens quickly revealing a smiling woman the same age as me. Her golden hair rests on her shoulders, unlike senior year of college when she rocked a short ‘pixie cut.’

“It’s so great to see you again, Collin!” she says as she wraps her arms around me and squeezed me into a tight hug.

“Nice to see you too, Mandy,” I reply after hugging her. “Where do you want this?” I asked, raising the bottle of wine.

“Well, that was nice of you. Alex is in the kitchen. He can take it.” She smiled and shut the door behind me. I hang my coat up and make my way through the recently renovated city apartment. Rounding the corner, I walk into the kitchen. Alex stands by the sink with a big smile, “Collin, get over here. It’s been way too long.” We was every bit the athlete I remembered rooming with for my first years of college.

I walk over and give him a handshake that turns into a hug. “Is here fine?” I ask while resting the bottle on the marble countertop.

“Sure,” he hands me a corkscrew. “Are you alright if I have some?” I nodded. “Great, I’ll grab some glasses.”

I pulled the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses for Alex and Karen. I had learned back in college that I had what some called ‘an addictive personality.’ After graduation and three years of relatively unbroken sobriety, I was comfortable enough around wine. If you stick a bottle of whiskey near me, on the other hand, that would be what those same people would call ‘a trigger’.

We reminisced about funny stories from our undergrad years. The time he was almost arrested for urinating on a professor’s car was a classic. Every time it was told, it got a good response. I couldn’t resist bringing up the time Alex puked in the water tank rather than the toilet bowl in our apartment.

In the end, the stories usually came back around to the house party when I was whiskey drunk for the first time. The cops came to break up a massive party at a neighboring apartment. Instead of running away with the pack of college kids, Alex and I raided the beer fridge and made off with the party’s supply of Bud Lite, which led to my harrowing escape.

By harrowing escape, I mean when I loaded up my pockets and arms with beer cans and jumped out the second story window. Through sheer force of luck, I didn’t suffer much more than two sprained ankles and some bruises.

Alex sets his glass down and pulls three packages from the refrigerator. Cutting the twine with a kitchen knife, he unfolds the butcher’s paper of one package revealing a healthy ten-ounce steak. It looked absolutely mouthwatering. He sliced the rest open and walked over to the stove. Placing two pans on the burners, he drops a wad of butter in the center of each. Watching the butter melt, he places a ten ounce and six ounce in the larger pan, and what I presume to be a ten ounce intended for me in the second.

The sizzle and smell make my stomach growl. “I got these from a local butcher just for this occasion,” said Alex cheerfully. Not a second after, Mandy walks into the kitchen and begins laying plates on the table. More fond college memories are rehashed by the three of us while we wait for the meat to cook.

Finally ready, Alex plates the steaks and sets them on the table. With pot holders, Mandy pulls the glass bowl mashed potatoes from the oven. I stood around and watched, fulfilling my role as the useless guest. After their wine glasses were refilled, and a glass of water was set in front of me, we all sit down to enjoy a nice meal.

The steak could not have been cooked any better. I remained all but silent for almost the entire meal, except for a few words mumbled through a full mouth. Alex and Mandy carried the dinner conversation and didn’t seem to mind my lack of contribution.

After dinner, I help clear the plates from the table. “You really know your way around a steak,” I said to Alex.

He smiled, “If only I knew how to cook in college.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I said. “You were a master at boiling Ramen packets.” We both laugh.

After helping as much as I could with the cleanup, I throw on my jacket. Shaking hands and hugging, Alex says we should do this again soon. “I can’t agree more,” I say.

Just before I walk out the door, Mandy says to Alex, “Oh, don’t forget that gift.”

“What gift?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” replies Alex. Disappearing into the kitchen, he returns with another butcher wrapped package. “We got this neighbor who knows a butcher. Or maybe his brother’s a butcher. He’s actually who we got the steaks we had tonight.”

“It’s not like it smells bad or anything,” adds Mandy, “It just smells…different.” I take the package and hold it up to my nose. It didn’t smell like beef, pork, or any other distinguishable type of meat.

“It smells a bit off,” continued Alex, “but he assured us nothing’s wrong with it. We just figured that since you’re more into grilling, you might like to have it. I helped him move a couch into his apartment downstairs, and he said he’d hook us up as a thank you.”

“Thanks, guys, I’ll let you know what I do with it,” I say wave and prepare to walk out into the cold Buffalo night.

----

The next day, I came home from work a little later than usual, around six o’clock. Changing out of my work uniform, I walked down the hall to the kitchen of my bottom level duplex apartment. Opening the refrigerator, I glance around for something to eat. Just as I was about to order pizza, the packaged meat from last night catches my eye.

I cut the twine and unroll the butcher’s paper and look at the steak. It seemed fine. I heated up the small propane grill in the backyard and prepared the steak. I dripped some olive oil on both sides of the meat and salt, pepper, and a healthy dose of garlic powder for flavor.

The sizzling meat smells great, better than any steak I’ve cooked in recent memory. Turning the burner off, I plate the medium-rare steak, and sit down at the table. There’s nothing quite like the first cut into a perfect steak. It’s actually more tender and moist than I hoped it would be. Don’t even get me started on the taste. It was so good that I cleared my plate in no time.

I lick the juices from my lips and savor the last bite in my mouth. Washing my meal down with some tap water, I start to feel hungry again. The steak was at least ten ounces, and I could physically feel it in my stomach, yet I wanted a second helping.

Thinking about what else I could make, my eyes wander back to the grill. Walking over to it slowly and rub my finger across the cooling metal grill top. Licking my finger, the flavor filled my mouth again. Without pause, I lick the metal grate where the steak had cooked, hoping to get the tiniest of flavor.

There had to be more. I was confident I could get more tonight. I don my coat and boots as I walk down three city blocks to the nearest butcher. Opening the door, I hear a bell ring in the back. Standing at the counter, I tap my fingers impatiently.

Finally, the butcher comes out. “Do you have…?” It occurred to me that I didn’t even know the name of the meat. I only remembered the word ‘carne’ written on the butcher’s paper in black marker. Trying to help, the butcher offers suggestions. Bringing samples from the back, not even the most exotic meats he offered smelled the same.

I found two other butcher’s shops near me after a quick search on my iPhone but the result was the same. Looking at the time, it was well after 10pm by the time I walked to both shops. My stomach growled. It wasn’t long before the Uber I just ordered pulled up. I got in and sent a text to Alex, seeing if he was home.

Pulling up to his apartment building, I thank the driver and run into the building. Knocking frantically at the door, Alex answers with an annoyed look on his face. “Dude, I work earlier than you, remember?”

“Who gave you that steak again?” I ask disregarding the comment.

“It’s ten thirty-five? Fuck’s wrong with you?” says Alex.

“I really want to get more. It was delicious and I’m starving,” I plead. “Do you know where your neighbor got it?”

“Listen, Dumitru lives on the first floor in B1. Fuckin’ ask him.” Alex shut the door abruptly but that didn’t bother me. I had a name and an apartment number. As I hit the landing there it was. The smell I have been searching for. At the bottom of the stairs is a single door with a chipped wooden B1 on the door. I knock on the door with impatient hands. There is no response. I knock harder to the point where I am almost punching the door. Twisting the knob, I realize it’s unlocked. The door opens with a creek, and I walk in.

There is an old man, maybe in his seventies, leaning over a pan on top of the stove. He turns around showing a worn face with a long white beard. “Uh, Dumitru?” The old man smiles. I hear the sizzle of cooking meat behind him. The smell is overpowering.

Without introducing myself, I stride over to the stove guided by mouthwatering scent. Not even thinking about the heat, I plunge both hands into the pan and grab fistful of what looked like ground beef. I gingerly chew up the hot meat, breathing in and out of my mouth to cool it. My burnt hands wipe the grease on my jeans. I still keep stuffing the food into my mouth until there’s nothing left. Savoring the precious meat, my eyes well up with tears of joy as I lick my hands clean. Dumitru only smiled while watching me.

As if waking from a stupor, I my hands and tongue scream from eating something right out of a cooking pan. Running over to the sink, I turn the cold water on and drink quickly. After a few gulps, I hold my hands under the faucet. The old man laughs, still standing with fork in hand. “You’ve got quite the appetite, băiat,” he says in a feeble voice.

When my mouth cools down after a few more gulps of cold water, I apologize. “What was that?” I ask.

“It’s an old Wallachian delicacy.” he replies. “Not many eat it these days. Want more?”

Even though I just ate, I can feel the hunger slowly creeping back. “If you have more, I would appreciate that,” I say softly, not trying to agitate my burnt throat.

“I don’t have any left,” replies the old man. “But, I know where we can get more though. My brother, he is a butcher and his place is short walk from here. I can, hook up you.”

Please,” I plead, “That would be wonderful!” The old man flashes a toothy grin and puts on a stained ball cap and worn coat, “Follow me.”

We walk out of the apartment building, and I follow his lead out onto the snowy sidewalk. While we walk, I no longer felt full. I grabbed a handful of snow and put it in my mouth to calm my burned tongue. My stomach felt like it was slowly sinking into a bottomless pit. Walking for what seemed like more time than reasonable, I look up to realize that my surroundings were no longer familiar.

The houses we passed were dilapidated, and some were even completely boarded up. I couldn’t recognize the neighborhood. Even the streetlights look old. Fog crept into the streets like hunger into my gut. I didn’t even any street traffic anymore. The old man assured me it was not much farther. I hoped he was right. My stomach began having hunger pains, and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about what I had eaten earlier.

He turned down an alley that was barely wide enough to fit more than two people side by side, between two old brick warehouses. At the end of the alley the old man pointed across the street to an sign hanging above a doorway that in peeling paint read ‘Bogoescu’s Butcher.’ All the other businesses on the street were boarded up and defaced by graffiti. Slowly walking up to the front door, the old man held the creaky wooden door open for me. “Ask for the special,” he said before I entered. Without acknowledging, I step into the shop.

A large, broad chested man walks out of a back room with blood spattered on his apron. My instincts tell me to go back the way I came, but I don’t. I’m so fucking hungry.

“Help you?” he inquires with a thick foreign accent.

“Yeah,” I say, urged on by hunger pains, “I’d like the special.” The butcher nods motions for me to follow him.

“You want the Carne?” he asks while he walks. I can feel my heart race as I smell the meat in the back.

“Yes, it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” he replies.

The stench of blood was in the air. I follow the butcher into the room and stop dead in my tracks. There in the back was a naked man suspended from the ceiling by a meat hook jammed into his back. His stomach is cut open, and his intestines have spilled out into the bucket below him. Blood dripped on to the floor. The corpse’s right arm had been severed below the elbow and rests on the chopping block next to the cleaver.

Immediately I want to run but cannot. The raw meat on the chopping block smells so familiar. My mouth waters. The butcher watches me carefully as I walk over to the chopping block, my stomach groans. My eyes lock onto the meat that had been peeled from the severed forearm. Dropping to my knees, I grab a chunk and rip a bite off. Closing my eyes, I revel in its taste and flavor. Shoving the entire chunk in my mouth, I grab the other and tear it apart savagely with my teeth.

Smiling with satisfaction, the butcher walks over mumbling in a language I can’t understand. Grabbing the cleaver, he watches me gnaw on the fingers of the severed arm. Raising the cleaver above my head, he prepares to chop up his new delivery.