PBS | TasteMakers

Catch Left Bank in the premier episode of tasteMAKERS on PBS!

We had a great time with Cat Neville talking about whole-animal butchery, sustainable agriculture and, of course, delicious meats, as she explores the maker movement and takes viewers on a journey “to meet the makers who define American cuisine.”

The episode begins on the Haw River…

“In a once-abandoned textile mill here in Saxapahaw, NC, about an hour outside of Raleigh, there is now a thriving hub of artisans and makers. And in this episode of tastemakers, you are going to meet Ross Flynn of Left Bank Butchery.”

And then it dives right in! Enjoy interviews with Ross Flynn of Left Bank, Heather Lagarde of the Haw River Ballroom, Eliza MacLean of Cane Creek Farm and Charles Sydnor (aka “Doc”) of Braeburn Farm during this in-depth look at our local food chain, and the people, places and animals behind it all.

Our State Magazine | Glam Ham

Whether elegantly glazed, pinned with pineapple, or shellacked with Cheerwine, ‘tis the season for fancy hams

by Emily Wallace

Emily Wallace is a freelance writer and illustrator with a master’s in pimento cheese. She is the art director and deputy editor of Southern Cultures, and her illustrated book Road Sides: An Illustrated Companion to Dining and Driving in the American South was published in 2019. Find more of her work at eewallace.com.


Ham doesn’t take holidays. Rather, ham works overtime. Garnished with pineapple rings, pricked with cloves, or bathed in Pepsi, a humble ham becomes Christmas dinner’s brightest star. The tradition is feasibly linked to the ancient practice of bringing in the boar’s head during the Yuletide, a festivity captured in a centuries-old carol: “The boar’s head in hands I bring with garlands gay and birds singing!” But tracking down a modern ham is obviously simpler than hunting a wild boar and placing an apple in its mouth (though that ritual continues in England). Nowhere is this more true than in North Carolina, where an oft-repeated stat tells us that pigs outnumber people.

Pigs have always been an indispensable part of Southern life, as they were plentiful, easy to raise, and a source for multiple meals. Butchered and cured in salt, they provided an important source of protein that would keep for weeks and months — even years. Creative cooks came up with ways to make the salty pork more palatable, which commonly included soaking or boiling. Writing in 1867, Annabella Hill, the prominent rural author of Mrs. Hill’s New Cook Book, declared boiled pork “our favorite every-day dish.”

Refrigeration later enhanced pork’s appeal, making it so that hogs could be killed year-round — not just in cooler months — and prepared beyond shelf-stable cures, which extended the life of everyday ham. And so it was that by the early 20th century, a variety of plump, wet-cured hams — so-called city hams, to distinguish them from their dry-cured country cousins — could be readily plucked from the likes of a Piggly Wiggly. Inventive home cooks continued to come up with ways to make city hams more appetizing or unique. Basting the meat in syrupy sodas like Cheerwine or Pepsi proved one popular cure. Reaction to that sweet-and-salty alchemy can be summed up in another line from the “Boar’s Head Carol”: “Giving praises to the Lord!” (Pronounced lard, of course.) And the praise rings out from city and country believers alike.

• • •

It’s easy to assume that Ross Flynn built his ham business on country ideals. Founded in 2014, Left Bank Butchery is situated in the heart of rural Saxapahaw, a former mill town on the Haw River. To procure pork, Flynn and his co-owners Aron and Lisa Woolman partner with Cane Creek Farm, also of Saxapahaw, where Flynn worked as a farmer for five years and first learned the art of butchering. But Flynn also adheres to city standards. The city hams — he calls them “house hams” — featured on Left Bank’s menu are brine-cured to produce succulent meat, perfect for supper or a sandwich. “I take a lot of pride in being in school lunch boxes,” he says. “I take pride in being part of people’s everyday.” 

At the Chapel Hill location of his Left Bank Butchery, owner Ross Flynn serves a smoked ham that’s sweet and salty.PHOTOGRAPH BY ANAGRAM PHOTO

Flynn secures all of his pork locally, and the resulting hams are far from your average grocery store variety. His rich and complex herbs de Provence and molasses-smoked hams are his day-to-day best sellers. But they particularly hog sales between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Around the state, ham’s heyday has always been the holiday season, when a gussied-up everyday ham is as anticipated as a wrapped present. One second-generation curemaster in Smithfield emphasizes this point to his workers: “I say, ‘Listen. The customer’s whole house could burn down; they could lose all their presents, their Christmas tree. But if their refrigerator made it through the fire with that ham in it, that Christmas will be fine.’ ”

Such zest for ham may sound a little crazy. But holidays are known to heighten emotions — to heighten nearly everything. The trees are strewn with tinsel. The lowly sock is hung on the mantel. And the average ham settles in at the head of the table. Eventually, though, the tinsel is taken down and the stocking is packed away. Meanwhile, the picked-over ham remains, calling out to be re-upped for another day, and another, and another. An old carol puts it best: “Repeat the sounding joy!”

PressRoss FlynnComment
INDY Week | Food & Drink

The Food Halls Are Coming! But What Makes Them Different From Food Courts?

by: Layla Khoury-Hanold


On a Wednesday at 11:00 a.m., I faced down my toughest decision of the day: what to eat for lunch. I pored over menus as I wandered, debating between butter chicken from Curry in a Hurry or pork chimichurri empanadas from Makus Empanadas, before settling on lotus root salad and summer rolls from MKG Kitchen. While I waited for my food at a communal table, a young couple sitting nearby made me wonder if I should’ve ordered a CowBar burger, while two gentlemen incited a case of order envy, slurping bowls of The Broth’s ramen from their perches in overstuffed chairs.

I can’t think of many restaurants where diners can choose from dozens of different cuisines spanning every meal and satisfying nearly every craving. Or one where it’d be acceptable to change tables mid-meal, or one that served high-quality, local food in minutes, all without having to reserve a table.

At the newly opened Morgan Street Food Hall in Raleigh’s Warehouse District, this dining utopia is a reality. And by early 2019, the Triangle will be home to four food halls, each with its own look, vibe, and vendor mix.

But what makes food halls different than food courts? Whereas a food court is an amenity, a place to grab a bite while shopping, food halls are a destination. All four Triangle food halls put a premium on local businesses, giving many chefs a chance to open their first brick-and-mortar or bring niche offerings to a wider audience.

Food halls also curate ambiance, incorporating greenery, local artwork, lighting, custom acoustics, and comfortable seating. Oh, and did we mention? There’s also booze.

This means that we are going to eat (and drink) very well in the coming months, but the food hall boom also has the potential to satisfy our hunger for connection—connection to our food, to our small business community, and to one another.

“I think we’re seeing a cultural shift in the way people think about social interactions,” says developer Jason Queen. “People are embracing the need for social interactions, and I think there’s a hell of an opportunity for food halls to do that and do it well.”

Queen is the founder of Transfer Co. Food Hall, slated to open early 2019 in the historic Carolina Coach Garage and Shop (and former home of the Transfer Co. bus line) in Raleigh’s Old East neighborhood. Besides sitting across the table from someone you might not otherwise share a meal with, Queen says that at Transfer Co., social interaction is built into the food offering. Because each vendor’s production space is open, diners have the chance to say, watch oysters being shucked at Locals Oyster Bar or a bar of chocolate being made at Videri Chocolate Factory. This also sates curious foodies’ yen to know more about their food, and millennials’ desire for food to provide an experience.

Social connection can also extend to vendors. Queen envisions Benchwarmers Bagels, a collaboration between Jubala Coffee and Boulted Bread, offering a bagel topped with smoked fish from Locals Seafood’s fish market, or perhaps having Burial Beer Co. collaborate with Videri Chocolate on a food hall-exclusive chocolate stout. These unique one-offs help make food halls destination-worthy and keeps diners coming back.

Durham Food Hall founder Adair Mueller agrees that fostering collaboration and creativity is key for chefs, too.

“A food hall is like a playground to a chef. In a full-service restaurant or even a food truck they’re so limited. There are a lot of constraints, so you can’t be quite as creative and constantly changing and maintain a new menu,” Mueller says. “I love that aspect, in that they can truly create. And if an item isn’t working and it flops, you can change it. You haven’t invested that same cost.”

Mueller also sees Durham Food Hall, slated to open early winter 2018, as an incubator for food entrepreneurs. Housed in the former Liberty Warehouse, the Durham Food Hall boasts fifteen-thousand square feet, so it could easily accommodate more than ten vendors. And with two-hundred-fifty applications, there was plenty of interest. But Mueller was intentional about finding the right mix; in addition to a high-quality offering, she chose vendors with interesting stories, unique products, and ones with shared values for sustainability and local sourcing.

There’s Lula & Sadie’s, a multi-generational family endeavor focused on seasonal Southern staples with a modern twist (think: eggnog-pecan French toast); couples-owned businesses such as Afters, specializing in cake and dessert flights; and women-owned businesses such as Ex-Voto Cocina Nixtamal, which uses heirloom corn to make masa and tortillas for its tacos and tamales.

Niche businesses were also a focus for Blue Dogwood Public Market in Chapel Hill, the Triangle’s first food hall which opened in mid-June. Food halls are a way for small businesses to get started with less investment, and they can test new concepts with less risk. At Blue Dogwood, you’ll find gluten-free baked goods at Pizzelle Bakery, peanut-free chocolates at Chocolatay Confections, vegan tacos and wraps at Vegan Flava, and plant-based tamales and arepas at Soul Cocina.

Blue Dogwood lives up to the “Public Market” part of its moniker, too. In addition to picking up a sandwich from whole-animal butcher Left Bank Butchery, you can also buy fresh sausages, steaks, and charcuterie to take home, along with cheeses from Chapel Hill Creamery and bread from Pittsboro’s Chicken Bridge Bakery. Blue Dogwood will soon add a produce vendor, making it one of the few places to buy fresh produce in downtown Chapel Hill.

But before you head home with your bounty, if you feel like lingering—and you can, because there are no table vultures hovering with a reservation—head over to Blue Dogwood’s bar and order an afternoon brew. It’s the easiest decision you’ll have to make all day.

PressRoss FlynnComment
Netflix Series | COOKED

From New York Times Best-Selling Author Michael Pollan and Academy Award-Winning Filmmaker Alex Gibney

Left Bank Butchery on Netflix! And with Michael Pollan, too!

Michael Pollan is the author of Omnivore’s Dilemma, The Botany of Desire, In Defense of Food, How to Change Your Mind, and many other excellent books. We were truly honored to be included in this series along with Cane Creek Farm. For those of you who have Netflix, we’re on the very first episode titled “Fire.”

From best­-selling author Michael Pollan and Oscar­-winning filmmaker Alex Gibney and an all­-star cast of directors and cinematographers comes the Netflix Original Documentary Series COOKED.

Explored through the lenses of the four natural elements—Fire, Water, Air and Earth—COOKED is an enlightening and compelling look at the evolution of what food means to us through the history of food preparation and its universal ability to connect us. Highlighting our primal human need to cook, the series urges a return to the kitchen to reclaim our lost traditions and to forge a deeper, more meaningful connection to the ingredients and cooking techniques that we use to nourish ourselves.

PressRoss FlynnComment
Vanishing Point | The Documentary Magazine

Laura Fieselman’s Man & Hog follows a day in the life of Ross Andrew Flynn in the heart of the foothills in North Carolina. Photographs by Aaron Canipe.

Laura Fieselman works and writes at the intersection of the farm and the kitchen. She lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina and will embark upon the pork-belly-turned-bacon adventure of her daydreams any day now. 


April 20, 2014

Ross Andrew Flynn is a butcher and a baker and a badass. He scores baguettes with an odd number of slashes “like the French.” He knows that pigs are either black or white and enough about golfing to distract the health inspector. He hosts couch surfers and crafts them pasta from scratch. He sports a Royals ball cap and a three-week beard. He travels to Texas to butcher the spoils of an annual wild boar hunt but is “not much of a hunter” and doesn’t “know anything about guns.” His only worldly want is a vacuum packing machine. He has a dog named Red Eye Gravy; a woman named Eliza is his heroine. He detests that we in America “got rid of the role of butcher because we didn’t see value in it,” and insists that we must bring it back. He hacksaws through skulls.

It’s 6:55 a.m. on a North Carolina Wednesday in November. The full moon hangs just above the tree line in rural Orange County. Ross Andrew Flynn can’t find his glove. The kitchen staff always loses his glove. “Any time anyone sees it, they just throw it somewhere in a fit of disgust”, he says. He pauses in front of the knife rack, studying, and then pulls five for the morning: two shorter boning knives (five and seven inches), a longer curved blade, a cleaver and an enormous blade that resembles a machete, though machete is surely the incorrect culinary term. He sharpens the knives on a whetstone with a certain air of meditation and gentleness. He clears a stainless steel work surface and preps it with a cutting board and several dishtowels. He ties on a fresh white apron. The day is underway at the critically acclaimed Eddy Pub in Saxapahaw, North Carolina. Saxapahaw is a rural Piedmont community, where the Haw River runs by unexpectedly upscale lofts, artist studios, and the Saxapahaw General Store: “your local five star gas station.” Ross Andrew Flynn is the pub’s part-time butcher, has previously served in the roles of baker and bartender, and is a part-time farmhand for nearby Cane Creek Farm.

For Ross Andrew Flynn, all of this began as a fascination with small-scale farming. He graduated from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and what sustainability-minded twenty-something isn’t dreaming about eschewing a professional career to tend fields of heirloom vegetables as he graduates? The magnetism of the growing do-it-yourself culture among young people proved irresistible. As legendary book editor Daniel Halpern puts it, “The passion my generation felt about poetry and fiction has gone into food, I think, into making pickles or chocolate or beer.” It’s certainly true for Ross Andrew Flynn, who leaves a trail of home-smoked pork belly and charcuterie experiments in his wake.

It’s 7:04 a.m. “You wanna help me with this pig?” Help is an understated verb. “Watch out for the toenails,” hollers Jeremy, the baker, as we duck into the walk-in cooler. “They’re sharp!” he warns. Resting on a rolling cart in the center of the refrigerated room is an entire hog split down the center by the local meat processor. It’s already drained of blood and has hung for a week. I shy away from the back hoof, the hairy leg skin, and pointy nails giving me pause – indeed, they are sharp. But Ross Andrew Flynn grabs the front foot and we go for it. We shuffle across the kitchen with the first half, which weighs in at 90 pounds, and heave it onto the prepared workspace.

While he works, he tells me about his work with Cane Creek Farm, Ossabaw Island Hogs, and Eliza MacClean, the farmer behind the operation in the heart of Alamance County. His time on the farm is an ongoing endeavor that precedes his time at The Eddy and strongly shapes his budding butchery practice. The Ossabaw Island Hog, a descendant of the Iberian hogs left by Spanish settlers off the coast of Georgia in the 1500s, is their featured product. A self-proclaimed Noah’s Ark of other species – including a variety of heirloom chickens, Saxony Ducks, Katahdin Sheep, Nigerian Dwarf Goats, and miniature donkeys – joins the Gloucestershire Old Spots, Farmer’s Hybrids, and Cane Creek’s very own Crossabaw breed.

Eliza boasts a degree in Environmental Toxicology from Duke University and is the mother of twelve-year old twins. She is an idol to Ross Andrew Flynn. Her farm is a shining example of crop and animal rotation where the animals have free range to graze, root, and wallow. The sows dig nests to give birth and raise their piglets. The result, writes Peter Kaminsky for the New York Times, is meat that delivers “waves of exquisite porkitude.” Ross Andrew Flynn’s first jobs on the farm were those of every beginner farmhand and immersed him in covering strawberry beds, washing leeks, and feeding animals. He drove trucks, cleaned freezers, and built fences.

It’s 7:11 a.m. Flynn begins the process of transforming pig to pork. Step one is to pull out the umbilical cord – the only aspect of the process that makes him squirm. He uses a plastic baggie as protection from the little tube that runs the length of the spine and tosses the disembodied cord aside. Step two is to divide the half pig into thirds: shoulder, loin, and ham. He pulls a fine-toothed hacksaw and a machete from under the workstation. Saw, slice. Slice, saw. “Never use the saw on muscle and never use the knife on bone,” he explains as he maneuvers back and forth between the tools. He transfers a tub of fist-sized hunks of fat from last week’s sow into a giant cauldron on the range to render as lard while he works. He stops sawing for a moment to stir the light pink cubes. They steam as they come to temperature, and the whole affair smells foul. Back at the pig, he separates the shoulder from loin between the third and fourth ribs despite the industry standard of cutting between the fourth and fifth ribs. He has the restaurant’s menu in mind, conscious that his cut will give an additional pork chop.

Ross Andrew Flynn approaches butchering as a near sacred act. Jennifer McLagan’s Odd Bits is his Bible. His fascination with the cookbook was born when he witnessed, week after week, the lesser-known cuts of meat and tubs of lard from Cane Creek go unsold and lose value in the freezer. He began taking these remains home, poring over McLagan’s text for inspiration. “Headcheese for the Unconvinced” was an early experiment. Shortly, terrine appetizers and pork belly main courses became the norm in his home kitchen; his shared house of dudes was unaware of their fabulous fortune in roommate choice.

His working relationship with this restaurant began at the bar when Ross Andrew Flynn needed a second job to pay the bills that farming couldn’t. He didn’t mind the mixing and pouring aspects of bartending, but the late hours cramped his early-morning farming style. Something had to change. One night, he and Jeff Barney, part owner and then-head chef at The Eddy, were drinking together at the bar. Three-quarters drunk, he butted in on a conversation Jeff was having with the head baker about replacing someone on the baking team: “Jeff. I hate bartending. Can I bake? I can bake.” Thus, he began his baking career.

Jeremy is the head baker: tall, lithe, and an ex-administrative assistant at UNC. For two years, Ross Andrew Flynn was his trusty sidekick, both on site by 5:00 a.m. They made sourdoughs, baguettes, sweet rolls, kitchen loaves, café loaves, brownies, doughnuts and eight dollars an hour. Theirs is a five-deck oven with a re-purposed squirt bottle as a steam injector. Dough proofs in racks of bus tubs while finished French loaves stack against the wall. Flynn insists that the rye rolls are their finest product. The operation is barebones; the smell was so compelling, I inhaled the mini-baguette Jeremy gave me in the parking lot, unable to restrain myself long enough to get home to butter and jam.

Two years as a baker offered intimate access to the kitchen and to the trials and tribulations of the restaurant’s underbelly. Ross Andrew Flynn cultivated a deep understanding of the disconnect between farmer and chef. His experience raising and delivering animals for Cane Creek, his time in the professional kitchen, experimentation with Odd Bits at home, and deep frustration with the processor positioned him for his next big thing. Enter Ross Andrew Flynn: the butcher. “Jeff,” he said one morning in the kitchen, “I know that I can’t do it perfectly, but I think I can do better with the hogs.” He proposed a win-win-win solution. Cane Creek wins because they pay the processor only to kill, hang, and minimally process the hogs instead of full butchering into restaurant-quality cuts. The Eddy wins because they get a less expensive animal and higher quality cuts. Ross wins because he moves from baker to butcher at nine dollars per hour and a shift that begins at 6:30 a.m. Perfect.

It’s 7:29 a.m. Isaiah Allen saunters in, full knife set tucked under his massive bicep. Isaiah – then a chef at the Hotel Sienna’s Il Palio and now head chef at The Eddy – is present this morning to swap butchering techniques with Ross Andrew Flynn, because his restaurant has begun purchasing whole animals from Cane Creek and breaking them down in house. Self-taught, home-grown Ross Andrew Flynn is trading tips with a AAA Four Diamond restaurant – the one at the hotel where Michael Jordan stays when he is town and where a yellowfin tuno crudo antipasti goes for $17.00. He’s a total badass.

It’s 8:00 a.m. Flynn sets the ham aside. “I’ll smoke that ham later. Margins on sandwiches are pretty good.” Ross Andrew Flynn knows that he can stretch this particular cut across many plates by making it delicious on the grill and then slicing it into sandwich meat, turning the profit The Eddy needs to keep afloat in a small town like Saxapahaw. Next the skin comes off the loin in 2-inch strips, a small pile mounding on the edge of his workspace. Thus far, this little pile of skin is the only thing he intends to discard. He’s for real about using the whole animal. He and Isaiah trade ideas on chicharrón, fried pork skins. They swap stories about the local meat processor, both of them disgruntled about the poor quality that comes from asking one entity to both kill and butcher animals: “there used to be processors and there used to be butchers,” Flynn says, “and then we asked the same person to do both things. And the quality is not the same.” A sloppy cut along the backbone fuels their frustration, and one of the men relays the urban legend they both know about the farmer who delivered four cows to the processor and went back to fetch the meat a week later only to find the cattle in the exact same pen in the processing yard where he left them, totally unfed for seven days.

“There’s a bottleneck,” Ross Andrew Flynn explains, “There’s no great way of getting meat directly to the consumer,” but the reality is that “we’re lucky to have a processor so close, because the truth of the matter is that many processors have gone out of business.” Processors are going out of business in part because they are limited by a slew of US government regulations which mandate that animals the size of this hog be killed in USDA-certified facilities. Their hands are tied in an attempt to both meet demand and produce a quality product. Both men are disappointed by the cuts that come from their processor, but “no processor does a particularly great job,” says Flynn. “We’ve asked those processors to do a whole lot of things, and if we had butcher shops, the butchers could focus on quality cutting.” His eagerness to be part of the solution to this problem is tangible as he saws through the rib cage, his left arm under the loin to give him control over the cut, all of it somehow reminiscent of a massage therapist making a neck adjustment. Ross Andrew Flynn really is a butcher.

It’s 8:35 a.m. Tenderloin, New York strip, porterhouse, chops, rib eye – Ross Andrew Flynn knows his hogs, explaining to me where and how to slice to get just the cut I might want. “This is a super lean pig,” he says in an on-going commentary about how he must butcher the animal differently for the restaurant than he would for himself, “I would love to leave the skin on.” His earnestness about the ways that I might achieve my own New York strip and Porterhouse cuts somehow imply that I, too, have a 180-pound $550 pig in my cooler and will be slicing it up myself tomorrow with the choice to leave the skin on or off. He saves trimmings for sausage and the fly leaf lard to render for the bakers. The spinal column ooze doesn’t faze him. The spare ribs and belly are his two favourite cuts. “She’s a Yorkshire mix. We’ve been trying to breed a leaner pig.” He admires their handiwork as he cuts. The fresh white apron now features pink polka dots.

It’s 9:12 a.m. He makes the cut for osso bucco and sets the neck bones on a roasting tray for stock. Suzanne Nelson, the woman behind Cozi Farm and supplier of chickens and produce, walks in to pick up the compost. “Suzanne, have you seen my glove?” hollers Ross Andrew Flynn. She says she took it home to launder, and will be right back with it and some slaughtered-this-morning chickens. Flynn darts over to pull the sourdough out of the oven while baker Jeremy has stepped out for a minute and pauses to stir the rendering lard en route back to his pig. We talk lard. The restaurant cooks and bakes with it – often “rather than messing with unknown seed oils” – as part of their use-the-whole-animal philosophy. Ross leaves them with several gallons each week. The completely rendered pork bits are floating on top of the vat, now tantalizing us with the aroma of bacon. “The Italians salt those rendered bits and press them into a thin cake.” Rillette is another must try: lard simmered with herbs and then whipped when cool with more herbs, packed in crocks and covered in fat.

As he fusses with the vat of lard, Isaiah and Ross Andrew Flynn exchange professional dreams. Isaiah wants to run a rural organic farm with a pecan-lined driveway, a professional kitchen on site, customers who spend big money to have a farm-to-table experience guided by a chef, and $500,000 to realize the dream. “I’ve got $10,000 in the bank,” he beams. “Speaking of half million dollar plans,” pipes in Ross Andrew Flynn, “we’ve all got ‘em.” He dreams about black pigs. “Ninety-nine percent of the pigs we know here in the US are white. I want to do black.” He’s talking about the Iberian hog, a black pig with spindly legs once raised throughout Europe for its dark, fatty meat. In this dream, the hogs would be finished on acorns and nuts, as they were in the old world. The closest thing in America today are North Carolina hams finished on the remains of the peanut harvest. Ross Andrew Flynn would butcher his black pigs and prepare European-style charcuterie, giving everything generous time to age. “I’m talking about a product that doesn’t exist in the U.S. right now.” His eyes sparkle.

It’s 9:29 a.m. He ducks into the walk-in cooler and walks out with a pig head in a plastic bag, nose and ears and eyeballs and glassy stare and all. He pauses to discuss barbeque needs with Jeff and they agree on a plan for the week. The head comes out of the bag. The bullet hole from the processor goes through the left-side of the forehead. He wants the brains. “Isaiah, man, can you help me?” Isaiah grabs the left ear and presses down the snout. Ross takes up the right ear and his hacksaw. He talks about brine and headcheese and “Cheese & Just a Little Brain Fritters,” his favourite Odd Bits recipe. “Frying,” claims the book, “and the addition of cheese often helps persuade people to try something they think they don’t like.” The sawing begins; he’s working through the skull. Little bits of cranium sawdust fly. They wrestle with the head; this is no small task. All conversation stops, the sheen of a slight sweat materializes on both of them. The saw comes down through the snout, back and forth between the nasal cavities. It’s all a bit much. He turns his body to shield something. I peek. He’s teasing bloody brains from the center of the head. Ross Andrew Flynn is a total badass. He rinses the brains in several flushes of fresh water. The front-of-the-house manager passes through. “They always come in while I’m doing the grossest stuff,” he giggles. The two halves of the head go into a pig-head-sized stockpot to soak. The right eyeball floats near the surface, watching. My field notes from this moment read, in a rather shaky hand, “I lose it as he hacksaws through the snout.”

The problem with black pigs is they take fifteen months to mature, while white pigs are ready for slaughter in eight to nine months. In a culture where time is money, this minor detail looms between Ross Andrew Flynn and his charcuterie dream. Nonetheless, preparations are underway. He’s pleaded with Eliza MacClean for Cane Creek to raise the hogs and he is confident she will if he secures a market – it’s the only thing for a true heroine to do. He is in conversation with the owners of The Eddy and Saxaphaw’s General Store about financing. He’s eyeing a space in the town’s miniature row of storefronts – a currently derelict space flanked by the two aforementioned establishments. He’s clear about the vision: a separate butchery that crafts and markets the highest-quality products on site and sells otherwise unsold inventory to the restaurant and café to be plated as specials. He’s talking with investors and architects and combing online butcher forums for lessons learned and potential employees. Ross Andrew Flynn is realizing his dream.

It’s 9:45 a.m. The vat of lard is rendered. The skull is soaking. The cuts are cooling. The four piles of trimmings on the worktable – skin, fat, bones, and meat scraps – disappear into storage containers to be utilized later. Tomorrow Ross will craft his signature charcuterie items for the restaurant’s menu. Three hours ago half a pig lay on this table and it is now in pieces across the kitchen becoming dinner as we speak. He darts over to the café, still in his apron. He returns with a steaming cup of fair-trade blend and perches on a clean table in the corner, resting for a moment before he embarks upon the second half of the hog. Ross Andrew Flynn is a butcher.

 

Ross Flynn

For five years Ross worked at Cane Creek Farm, learning everything from grazing strategies to carcass qualities. At some point, Ross started butchering and making charcuterie at The Eddy in Saxapahaw. Time on the farm gave way to time in the kitchen (he could do less damage with dead animals than with live ones), and a few years later, Left Bank Butchery was hatched.

 

 

Left Bank Butchery

Located in Saxapahaw’s former textile mill and serving the community that raises our delicious and sustainable meat. Our butcher shop is built on the foundations of supporting local agriculture, providing healthy food for our community, educating and engaging our customers in the many aspects of sustainable farming and whole animal butchery, and doing all of it with a smile.

 
 

An aside: I happened upon the Left Bank Butchery when taking a road trip that led through Saxapahaw in North Carolina. What a fantastic butcher shop. It's located in the old “drug room” of a textile mill (where dyes were mixed). It's not your typical butcher shop. As they say on their website: We love for folks to come hang out at the shop. You’ll find plenty of books to inspire meals, riveting conversations, and above-average music. I love their philosophy. We ended up in Saxapahaw on a summer Saturday when the town holds their weekly Saxapahaw Farmers Market and Music Series. You can listen to great bands every Saturday (5-8), do some shopping with area farmers, have a glass of wine on the hill, and grab a sausage sandwich from the Left Bank Butchery cart! We did all that and then we also stopped by The Eddy with their delicious Farm-to-Fork meals and a gorgeous view over the Haw River. All in all it was a memorable day. We plan to return next year during the summer for a more extended stay with friends who live in Raleigh.

When we arrived home (NYC) from our road trip, a disaster awaited us. Our dog walker who was taking care of our two dogs didn't show up on the day of our return. Our two Grand Basset Griffon Vendéens had not been walked for 24 hours. To compensate for not being able to poop and pee outside, Theo and Sid found a nice spot under our dining room tale to do their business. Unfortunately it was on an antique Persian rug. We couldn't be angry with the tow guys. And at least they did all their business in one location. Fortunately we have a reliable rug cleaning pros in NYC that we use to have all our rugs cleaned annually. I gave a call to Agara Rug Cleaning the next morning after taking the dogs out for a good run on the promenade at Riverside Park. Haim, a principal at Agara came buy that afternoon to pick up the rug. He suggested we get a new rug pad. Two weeks later the rug was back looking great- no urine smell, no stain, plus a new rug pad. Agara is just great. We also have a new dog walker!

 


CHEESE AND JUST A LITTLE BRAIN FRITTERS

from Jennifer McLagan’s Odd Bits

The recipe is very straightforward. Just make sure the cheeses are very finely grated; a microplane is the ideal tool.

3 eggs
½ cup/¾ oz/25 g very finely grated Gruyere, packed
¼ cup/â…“ oz/10 g very finely grated Parmesan, packed
2 Tbl finely chopped chives
Finely grated zest of 1 orange
½ tsp fine sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
3 sets poached pig’s brains
1 Tbl cornstarch
1 cup/7 oz/200 g lard

Preheat the oven to 200°F/100°C. Place a baking sheet lined with paper towels in the oven.

In a bowl, whisk the eggs, then slowly whisk in both the cheeses and the chives, orange zest, and salt, and season with pepper.

Slice each brain lobe into ½ -inch/1-cm slices and toss them in the cornstarch to coat. Transfer them to the batter and stir to mix; you will have something resembling a lumpy pancake batter.

Melt the lard in a heavy frying pan over medium heat; you should have about ½-inch of fat. When hot, drop a little batter into the oil; it should sizzle and rise to the surface. Now add a few spoonfuls of brain batter mixture to the fat; don’t overcrowd the pan and adjust the heat so the fritters bubble gently. Cook the fritters about 3 minutes, or until set and golden on the underside. Using a slotted spoon, gently turn them over and cook for about another 3 minutes. As they finish cooking, transfer the fritters to the baking sheet in the oven to keep warm. Serve right away.

Ross FlynnComment