
12
What has salt beef done? A theory
ENTERTAINMENT
Late walk home
Abby Sexsmith,
Staff Writer
Our story opens in the
kitchen of a castle. The year is
1300-something, and an Irish
woman is very proud of what
she created. “This is it?” Her
butcher friend asks, not in
English, but in Irish Gaelic,
because the British haven’t
waged war on their language
yet. There is dried blood on his
apron from the beef he had
lugged on the table earlier. It
now lay on the same table in
front of them after being salted,
put on a spit over a re set for
325 degrees fahrenheit for a
time, and nely seasoned to
perfection.
“This is it.” She wiped her
hands on her apron. “Salted
beef. It should last a while.”
The butcher leaned forward
and studied the grains of
blackened meat. “Is it just me,
or does it look menacing? Like
it’s up to something.”*
A posh man sits at a poker
table 500 years later in central
London. “Get me something
quick, some good food,” he
says to his servant. Of course,
good food wouldn’t be
invented for another 300
years when the rst Wegmans
touched ground, but his servant
found Salt Beef and added it to
bread. The 4th Earl of Sandwich
was so impressed that he could
eat something so delicious
without interrupting his
gambling addiction he gave
the food his name, having been
blessed with an edible name
(many, including me, weren’t!).
History will never know if he won
that game, but Salt Beef won
the honor of being
the rst sandwich. Was this
coincidence, or a part of its
plan?
*
One famous sandwich lover,
as the story goes, got into some
trouble while getting his go-to
lunch. And by trouble, I mean
assassinating ArchDuke
Ferdinand and starting World
War One. His name was Gavrilo
Princep and we are unaware of
the meat inside the sandwich
on that day. May it have been
Salt Beef? Salt Beef still had
copyright over the sandwich
from its invention. I have
gotten no comment from
Austria-Hungary.
*
By now, one might be
noticing the shy dealings of
Salt Beef. But the plot, much like
a good steak, is thicker than
that. And much juicier. And
goes with potatoes.
Because with WWI comes many
problems, and, when looking
beyond the obvious we see
the banning of 16% or above
liqueur in France. Tres mal! But
never fear, Paul Ricard saved
the day by breaking the law.
The French started brewing
their own homemade liqueurs
that were above the 16%, and
his used a star-anise mixture
that took off becoming the
brand Ricard! Though it got him
into some beef with the law,
it helped him bring home the
bacon and it became a great
drink for every occasion. But
one. And, oh boy, did one man
nd the wrong occasion.
*
Henri Paul was intoxicated,
having drunk a Ricard before
getting behind the wheel in
central Paris. But what
happened? You readers will
understand the dirt I’m ripping
up on Salt Beef as you’ve
followed me through the
sausage-links of time, and see
what it’s been cooking up
all along. That is the day that
Princess Diana died. Henri Paul
was the driver, Salt Beef was the
mind. The culmination of 700
years of planning from Salt Beef.
We still don’t know why Salt
Beef did this, or the cut it took
from this heinous crime.
Buckingham Palace and
Ireland have offered no
comment. Hush money was
offered, but I refused, because
I need this story to get out. I
broke three non-disclosure
agreements just pitching this
story.* Heed my warning and
beware of Salt Beef, we don’t
know all it’s done. Or what it’ll
do next.
*For legal reasons I am required
to say I did NOT break any
non-disclosure agreements
It’s nearing midnight as
Naomi walks down the sidewalk
from her night job, which ended
less than thirty minutes ago.
Jack had the audacity to slip
out of the building during
closing, saying that he had
somewhere important to be,
leaving her to close all by
herself. The last bus home left
without her, so now she’s
making her way somewhere—
she says she’s going straight to
her apartment, but deep down,
Naomi knows she’ll make a stop
at a corner store for a soda and
whatever else catches her eye.
It’s quiet, uncomfortably so.
The wind is absurdly silent for this
time of year and the only
ambience other than her
footsteps is a low buzzing from
certain street lamps. They’re
stretched far apart, and in the
middle of every dead space is
a patch of darkness. It reminds
her of scenes from old horror
games she saw her brothers
playing on PS2 when she was a
kid.
Her hands are tucked into
her pockets and, unseen, she’s
grasping her keys in between
her ngers, just for the added
security. A few people are
passing, but none of them seem
to look at her.
She sees someone, a
woman, up ahead, with
something in her hands and
whatever else she has spread
over the ground. Naomi
watches as two people change
the arc of their route to avoid
the woman’s situation. Naomi
considers doing the same, but
guilt is more powerful, and she
stops to help her pick up various
items, probably from a grocery
store. The bag lying next to
the items is torn at the bottom.
Naomi sees the woman more
clearly now, with big eyes and
black curls that go down to her
shoulders. She’s pretty, and the
streetlight above her atters her
features in a way that makes
her look like she’s posing for a
picture.
”Oh— thank you. You didn’t
have to do that,” The woman
mutters. She has a quiet voice,
both raspy and smooth. Naomi
smiles. “It’s no problem.”
The woman gazes past her,
watching the two people
continue to walk away, before
sighing and continuing to pack
her items in the one remaining
bag she has.
“I wish more people were
kind like you; last time this
happened, I ended up chasing
my things out into the road.”
”It’s happened before?”
”Too many times to count,
unfortunately. You’d think I’d
just buy the heavy-duty bags,
but at this point I’m just set in my
ways.”
Naomi chuckles, setting the
last item in the bag before get-
ting back on her feet.
(Continued on next page)
In honor of Alfred’s annual
Hot Dog Day, let’s look back on
The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, a
powerful piece of
muckraking literature that
exposed the harsh realities of
the meatpacking industry in the
early 20th century. Through the
eyes of its immigrant narrator,
readers are given a rsthand
look at the dangerous working
conditions, exploitative labor
practices, and unsanitary food
production methods
prevalent in the industry at the
time. Sinclair’s detailed and
gritty descriptions shed light on
the injustices faced by the
workers and the unsanitary
practices that put the general
public at massive risk.
This groundbreaking novel
not only ignited public outrage,
and is credited with
inuencing the establishment
of the Pure Food and Drug Act
and the Meat Inspection Act,
it also serves as a reminder of
the importance of investigative
journalism in holding
powerful institutions
accountable. In a time where
fake news and misinformation
run rampant, The Jungle stands
as a testament to the power of
spreading awareness and the
impact that exposing
corruption and injustice can
have on society. This Hot Dog
Day, enjoy your hot dogs with
the knowledge that
activism from the past
successfully changed our world
for the better.
Jack Ten-Eyck Johnson,
Staff Writer
Upton Sinclair