Steak - Mark Schatzker [62]
Every day, Mackay steps into the fields and visits his cattle. At no time will his speed exceed a walk, because even a light jog will worry them. “They become very suspicious,” he says. “A lion can walk through a herd of wildebeest and not disturb them because it’s moving at the same speed they are. You move at their pace and you can do anything you want.” The cattle know Mackay and respond to his voice. When the time comes for his cattle to become steak, roasts, and mince, he rounds them up and drives them to the slaughterhouse personally, to keep their worry down. Anxiety equals stress, which Mackay forbids, because it can affect the quality of the meat. He has found that when Highlands suffer through a hard winter and don’t get enough to eat, they will have a line of gristle in their flesh, like a stunted growth ring in tundra spruce. He does not buy these Highlands.
I tried to find Mackay’s farm and got lost. He told me to drive north out of Bridge of Earn on Highway A912 and look for the farmers’ market on the left in front of a field of grazing cattle. There was indeed a farmers’ market, but no cattle, only the largest, shaggiest sheep I’d ever seen, reddish blond, with long, pointy horns and big eyes. They moved like goats—one of them practically hopped—but the woolly coats assured me of their sheepness. They looked resoundingly Scottish. The tourist board, I thought to myself, must put them in fields next to the winding roads to add to the overall effect.
At the farmers’ market I found a fridge full of local meats and another full of cheeses. The woman behind the cash turned out to be Mackay’s sister. She took me outside to have a look at the sheep, which turned out to be cattle—Highland cattle. The cows had little calves next to them, and since it’s not a good idea to get between them, we walked slowly and fought the urge to wrap the littlest ones in hugs. Up close, Highlands do not resemble cattle any more than they do from a distance, but they do seem less sheeplike. Their hide brings to mind a prehistoric shag rug, and the horns could pass for tusks.
Behind us loomed a bench of quartz called Moncrieff Hill. A bull was grazing not far from the cows. He was another tough customer, as compact as a car battery, his horns sharp, curved, and pointed forward. He wasn’t as big and muscled as the Angus bull at Hardiesmill, but I might still put my money on him—size is an advantage, but it does not always win. The bull finished eating and hunkered down. With every movement, his body language broadcast a disdain for the cows around him, none of which were in heat. He did nothing to acknowledge our presence, either, but being ignored was its own kind of acknowledgment, and it felt like an honor.
Mackay wasn’t around, unfortunately, having traveled up to the Highlands for his summer vacation. While the rest of the country was suntanning in the south of France or on some beach in Spain, he’d headed north to where the land was colder, rockier, and harder. But he’d left me some papers detailing the provenance of the steak that was for sale in the well-lit modern display fridge. The lineage could be traced all the way back to a cow born in 1861 whose name was Magan, and whose father was called Dun Bull. Magan was mated to a fellow named Duntuilm Riabach, and their progeny would include, almost 150 years later, a steer with the sadly non-Gaelic name of 502552/600084, a steer who was nonetheless not the product of artificial insemination or embryo transfer, but who was conceived the old-fashioned way.
I will venture a guess and say that Angus Mackay’s Highland rib eye steak is not the first of its kind to be cooked in