Much ado about mutton

By By Robert St. John / food columnist
March 19, 2003
Robert St. John is the executive chef/owner of the Purple Parrot Caf and Crescent City Grill in Hattiesburg and Meridian. If you have any questions or comments, he can be reached at robert@nsrg.com or at (601) 264-0672.
Scene 1: Christmas party 2002. I am talking to a foodie friend while working on my third tray of chicken-salad sandwiches.
Me: What have you been cooking lately?
Foodie: Lamb.
Me: Where are you buying it?
Foodie: From the 4-H club. They have an auction. I buy a lamb, send it to the butcher, store it in the freezer and eat it all year long.
Me: Wow. You cut out the middle man. I love leg of lamb. My grandmother made the best. I like lamb chops, too. Can your butcher French the chops?
Foodie: I'm sure he can. We get a lot of ground lamb and cook lamb burgers in the summer.
Scene 2: February 2003, the initial meeting with the 4-H club sponsor (the lamb dealer). In a dark alley, the clandestine meeting occurs and a deal goes down.
Me: I hear you are the lamb connection.
Lamb Dealer: How much you want?
Me: I'll take all you got. I gotta have some lamb, man, and I gotta have it quick!
Lamb Dealer: Be at the Livestock Barn on Thursday night.
Me: Do you have any lamb on you? I need a little taste, just to hold me over.
Lamb Dealer: You're an idiot.
Scene 3: My office, sitting at my desk, daydreaming about Faith Hill's legs. In an instant the dream turns into a nightmare. Faith's legs shorten and become white and woolly, her feet turn into cloven hooves. Her singing voice changes into a series of warbly-tremolo "baa-aaa-aaa-aaas." I am awakened by the buzzing of a phone.
Secretary: Robert, you have a call on Line 3.
Me: Hello
Lamb Dealer: You didn't show at the auction. We have broken legs for less.
Me: I'm sorry. Did you get the lamb?
Lamb Dealer: Thirty pounds worth.
Me: When can I get it?
Lamb Dealer: First it has to go to Jackson to the Livestock Show. It might win a prize.
Me: Will that make it taste better?
Lamb Dealer: As soon as the lamb is judged, we'll take it to the butcher. The butcher will call you with further instructions; his code name is Black Falcon. Your code name will be Daydreaming Idiot.
Me: Can I have a more suave code name?
Lamb Dealer: Shut up!
Scene 4: My office. Still daydreaming about Faith Hill's legs. This time she's dancing in a large tub of mint jelly while eating lamb chops and pouring gravy all over herself. Once again, the phone rings (mutton dealing puts a dent in your daydreaming).
Secretary: Robert, you have a call on Line 2.
Me: Have you ever noticed Faith Hill's legs?
Secretary: No, but I like her music.
Me: She sings?
Secretary: You have a call on Line 2.
Me: Hello.
Butcher: Daydreaming Idiot, this is Black Falcon. We have your lamb ready. How would you like it dressed?
Me: Preferably in sheer, tight-fitting clothes like Faith Hill wears in those country-music videos.
Butcher: Excuse me.
Me: Sorry, inside joke. I would like leg of lamb, ground lamb and lamb chops. Can you French the chops?
Butcher: Yes. We'll call when it's ready.
Scene 5: One week later. I am eating Sunday lunch with my wife and children.
Wife: Your lamb is good.
Me: Not as good as my grandmother's.
Daughter: What lamb?
Me: Uh, umm. No lamb, honey. Oh, you must be talking about that roast beef on you plate. Isn't that good roast beef? Yes, the lamb is in the kitchen. Here, put some of this mint jelly on your roast beef.
Daughter: This is good roast beef. I would never eat a lamb.
Me: I know you wouldn't, sweetie.
Scene 6: My office, still daydreaming. This time I'm eating lamb with Faith Hill. Suddenly, my wife appears. She and Faith talk about what lazy-daydreaming idiots men are (a daymare). The intercom buzzes.
Secretary: Someone brought you a photograph. I don't know what to make of it.
Me: Bring it in.
Secretary: Why would anyone bring you a picture of a sheep at a livestock show?
Me: Well, what do you know a blue ribbon!
Secretary: What?
Me: Never mind. You see that.
Secretary: See what?
Me: That leg, I ate it for Sunday lunch. My daughter thought it was roast beef.
Secretary: That's gross! Look at the poor thing; he looks like he's smiling.
Me: He's not smiling anymore. By the way, has Faith Hill called?
Secretary: The closest you'll ever get to Faith Hill is that sheep.