No Pork Store Story
I’m not sure I can tell you the story of my visit to the pork store at the end of the line. I can not describe the frowny charm of the place — achieving that strange Slavic-masquerading-as-German balance of friendly and dour at the same time. I can not tell you why my companion (the one who found the store) decided to dress like a German country gentleman for the occasion. Or how the men behind the counter perked up only when I started asking about their headcheese. Or the frankfurter story. No, I can’t tell you that.
So instead, I will post a picture each day of the meats I purchased from them.