I loved the Kaufmans’ store. The door squeaked when it opened, the wood floors creaked under the slightest bit of weight, and the smell of garlic pickles in a big, wooden barrel filled the air. All the shopkeepers in our neighborhood lived above their stores, and the Kaufmans’ tiny kitchen was just beyond where Mr. Kaufman butchered fresh cuts of meat. Mrs. Kaufman tended the front, splitting her time between the cash register and stocking the shelves.

One day after school, my grandmother sent me to Kaufmans for one pound of ground beef. I sped down the block, carefully opened the squeaky door and inhaled the aromas of the old-fashioned grocery store. When Mr. Kaufman asked how he could help me, I repeated the order as politely and carefully as I could, “One pound of ground meat, please.” Off Mr. Kaufman went to the refrigerator, the heavy door closing behind him. He returned with a tray of various pieces of meat and proceeded to push them through his grinder.

I watched the fresh meat go in as chunks and come out like spaghetti while casting a wary glance at the knives hanging from the blood-stained chopping block, scarred by thousands of strikes from the cleaver. Mr. Kaufman reached for the roll of butcher’s paper, snapped off a piece and skillfully wrapped up my pound of meat. He took the black marker from behind his ear and wrote a price on the wrapper, handed me the package, and said thank you in his thick accent.

I returned home, placed the package on the counter and rushed back outside to play. I was soon interrupted by my grandmother yelling and gesturing from the end of the alley. As I approached, she waved the package of ground meat in the air and asked, “Theresa, what did you bring me?” Confused, I didn’t know what to say, “What you wanted, Grandmom. I told Mr. Kaufman what you wanted, and that’s what he gave me.”

For some reason, this set her off even more. “Then you take this back to those Kaufmans. We don’t eat horsemeat. You tell them you want your money back, and take that over to McGarigills and get me a pound of ground beef. I don’t care what they charge. At least they’re good Catholics and know what good Catholics eat. We’re through shopping at Kaufmans. He’s a shyster!”

She thrust the package into my hands and stomped off.  All I could do was what I was told. I slunk back to Kaufmans, opened the squeaky door and quietly waited my turn at the butcher counter. When Mr. Kaufman looked up with a puzzled expression, I said my piece. “Mr. Kaufman, I’m sorry, but my grandmom says to tell you that we don’t eat horsemeat and that we want our money back. She says you don’t know what good Catholics eat and that I have to go to McGarigills from now on, even though they charge more, because you’re a shyster.” The words were catching in my throat as I spoke, hoping I got it right, just the way my grandmother told me to say it.

I would miss Kaufmans. McGarigills never smelled like garlic pickles, and their floors didn’t creak, and the door opened smoothly. They had bag boys and boys who stocked the shelves. While I was lost in thought, I didn’t realize that Mr. Kaufman had turned a deep shade of red and that Mrs. Kaufman had come running down the aisle. They spoke rather heatedly to each other in a language I didn’t understand. Mrs. Kaufman snapped the package out of my hand and ushered me back to the front of the store. She opened the register and promptly counted out my refund. “You go now, and you don’t come back. We sell good meat, not horsemeat, and we take care of our customers. We don’t need troublemakers here.”

I scooped the money off the counter and made my way toward the door. Customers and other kids were staring. The only sound in the place was that squeaky door. Sadly, I headed for McGarigills where I stood politely in line and waited for the butcher to ask me for my order. For the second time in a half hour, I ordered the pound of ground meat.

Home again. The kitchen smelled like a combination of Pall Malls, boiled potatoes, butter and Bushmills Irish Whiskey. (After all, it was after five.)  I put the new package on the counter and watched as my grandmother opened the butcher paper, looked, smelled and poked at the meat. “What is going on around here?” she said. “Don’t these butchers sell decent meat anymore? I’m going to give them a piece of my mind!” With that, she wiped her hands on the apron, untied it and threw it over the kitchen chair. She re-wrapped the package, tucked it under her arm and grabbed me by the hand. This 4'11" dynamo hiked down the alleys, crossed streets, dodged traffic, and muttered about butchers and horsemeat, all the while holding my hand with a grip that was cutting off my circulation.

At McGarigills, my grandmother made a beeline to the butcher counter—which she could not see over—and pushed in front of the customer waiting in line. “You should be ashamed of yourself, calling yourself a butcher. What kind of ground beef is this?” The helpful customer, a few inches taller, passed the troublesome package of meat over the counter to the confused butcher, who calmly looked down at my grandmother, then at me.

Grandmom continued chastizing the butcher about service and quality as he opened the package and waited for her to finish. “Ma’am, if that little girl had ordered ‘beef,’ that’s what I would have given her, but I distinctly remember her asking for ‘one pound of ground meat.’ I remember that quite clearly.”

All of a sudden I felt every eye on me. Grandmom jerked my arm. “Theresa, what did you tell this fine gentleman I wanted?” I couldn’t answer. “Theresa, what did you order? Did you ask for ground meat or ground beef?” Finding my voice, I stammered something like, “Isn’t meat, beef?”

With that, my little Irish grandmother turned on the charm. “I am so, so very sorry, sir. Please forgive me. My granddaughter misunderstood. Please, let me have that back, and I’ll be out of your way.” The butcher smiled and replied, “No, you wanted ground beef, and that’s what you’ll have. Wait here—and maybe you can explain to your little girl that meat isn’t always beef.”

I listened carefully as my grandmother shared one of the great mysteries of life. “Theresa, some people can’t afford to eat 100 percent ground beef, so in order to make ends meet, they order ground meat, and these nice butchers cut up some pork ends along with some beef and grind it all together. Now, we aren’t poor (this came as news to me, since even at my age I knew we didn’t have any money), and our family can afford to order beef. From now on, you be sure to tell these nice people you want ground beef, not meat. Do you understand?”

Suddenly, I did understand. The ground meat was an insult. My grandmother thought that our butchers were insinuating that she couldn’t afford beef. It was as if the sky had opened up. On the way home from McGarigills I told Grandmom that I now understood perfectly, and it would never happen again. She squeezed my hand—a silent “apology accepted.” As we walked, I wondered about the Kaufmans and tentatively asked, “Can I stop at Kaufmans and tell them I’m sorry? I really feel bad for calling them shysters when it was my mistake.” For the second time that evening, I saw an adult turn beet red. “Theresa, you what? You said what?”

Confused (again), in my most innocent voice I said, “You told me to tell them good Catholics didn’t eat horsemeat . . .” Before I could finish, we cut across the street and were headed straight for the corner—directly for that squeaky door of Kaufmans’ grocery.

There are few times in my life that compare to stepping into that store, that evening, behind my tiny grandmother. I knew that my mistake had angered and hurt people, but as I stepped forward to apologize, Grandmom’s arm held me back. With all the pride she could swallow, she cleared her throat, looked the Kaufmans in the eyes and spoke. “Please, Mr. and Mrs. Kaufman, my granddaughter and I want to apologize for our mistake. I sent Theresa here for one pound of ground beef, and she asked for ground meat—not knowing the difference. I also must apologize because what I said to Theresa, in a fit of anger over what I thought was your fault, were unkind, hurtful things that Theresa did not realize she shouldn’t repeat.”

Mr. and Mrs. Kaufman looked at each other, discussed something in that strange language and nodded. Mr. Kaufman asked us to wait a minute and returned with a package. On the wrapper, in big black marker was written “$0.” He handed the package to Grandmom and said, “We accept your apology.”

I quietly walked beside my grandmother toward home. Relieved and happy that I was still allowed to shop at Kaufmans, I was even more amazed that we ended up with two pounds of ground beef for the price of a pound of meat.