Succulent ribs from Evripidou St., the meaty aroma of Tsiknopempti -literally ‘meat-burnt Thursday’, the Orthodox equivalent of Shrove Tuesday- and roasting the wild goat with its enticing charred outer flesh after the Lenten fast are engrained on the Greek spirit. The ‘message’ and the aromas are passed down from generation to generation; from the Sunday lunch of our childhood years with the whole family round the table, from uncle having his stomach pumped from overeating, from the hunger-ridden stops at the Isthmus of Corinth or Monastiraki Sq... Our lives our intertwined with this. We can, however, live without it... healthier and somewhat lighter too no doubt.
In 17th century English poultry and pigs were raised in dark hovels to accelerate the fattening up process. For these animals, running free and wild in the fields -never mind walking- was inconceivable. Activities like those burn up calories, slow down the putting on of weight and consequently delay the increase in profits. Unfortunately the economy cannot wait.
Nothing much has changed today. Animals are confined to individual cells just like then. The only motion they engage in is to chew their food. Anything that does not contribute to the end 'product' is prohibited. The animals are simply machines for converting grass to meat for consumption. Once they reach the desired weight, they are taken from their quarters, and are led off to be stunned and slaughtered. This entails them being hung up by the hind leg, next to each other like a parade of death’s row inmates. Of course, they react like fish out of water, flapping around. The conveyor belts kick in, emitting sibilant sounds.
Suddenly the animals receive a powerful electrical shock. This paralyses them almost immediately leaving them ready for their aorta to be punctured: a prick to the carotid suffices. The blood collects in buckets. Skinning then starts from the hind legs, followed by the belly, the chest, the front legs; the flesh torn is then along the length of the spine and the innards removed.
The fate of these animals is writ. There is no going back, no salvation, no liberation and they are very probably aware of it. This tortuous process repeats day-in day-out, always with the same look of sorrow painted in their eyes.
The carcasses are then transported away in large refrigerator trucks at low temperatures to ensure that rot can only set in slowly. Their soulless bodies are distributed to local butcher’s stores. Having been sliced up, priced and put in the display window they await the customer, the bon viveur, the gourmet, the lover of the smell of roast meat and protein. Unfortunately their corpses cannot speak to narrate to men the story of their meal, to have their last wish fulfilled...
Fotis Papadopoulos
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