It is Saturday morning, and I am in the butcher’s, waiting my turn. The couple in front of me cannot decide between pheasant and partridge, which is fine with me, because I don’t know what I want, either. I’m in no hurry. I’m perfectly happy standing here, listening to smooth rock.
The couple decide on pheasant, but they aren’t sure if they need one or two. It’s nice that they go to the butcher together, I think, instead of one of them, with no plan or instructions or ideas.
After some deliberation the couple decide to take two pheasants. A brace, the man says.
“A brace,” the butcher says. “I’ve only just learned what a brace means.”
“Two,” the man says.
“Yeah, but a brace means a male and a female,” the butcher says.
“Does it?” the man says. His voice carries a slight ring of suspicion, which I decide is warranted. Could it really mean that? It seems weirdly and unnecessarily specific. Then again, it’s not the sort of thing you would lie to your butcher about for sport. I suddenly feel resentful and out of my depth, as if this fact had been deliberately withheld from me for class reasons.
“Yeah, a male and a female,” the butcher says.
“Can you even tell when they’re like this?” the man says, pointing to the two pheasants behind the glass, plucked, dressed and identical. Good point, I say to myself, nodding at the floor.
“They’re different sizes,” the butcher says, defiantly. I think: actually this is taking quite a long time.
“Alexa!” the man shouts, suddenly. “What’s a brace of pheasant?” At first I think he’s asking his wife, but it turns out he’s addressing the white box behind the counter, which ignores him and continues to play smooth rock.
“Alexa!” the butcher shouts. “What’s a brace of pheasants?” The music stops.
“Do you want to know the price of pheasant?” Alexa says.
“No!” shouts the man.
“I don’t think she understands my accent,” says the butcher, who is Australian.
“Alexa!” the man shouts.
“Alexa!” the butcher shouts. I slip my phone from my pocket and start to type “Brace pheasant male…” But then I stop and think: this isn’t your fight.
Eventually the butcher threatens to throw Alexa into the street, and we all laugh, although I imagine it’s a threat that will be acted upon at some point, hopefully after I’ve gone. Alexa resumes playing smooth rock. The couple pay for the pheasants and leave. It’s my turn.
“Have you got a chicken?” I say.
Back at home the brace thing is still bothering me. I try looking it up on my phone again, but there doesn’t seem to be any hard information on the subject, and I can’t find a dictionary definition of “brace” that mentions gender in any context. Most of the images that come up when you Google “brace of pheasants” do feature a male and female bird hanging side by side, but that doesn’t strike me as conclusive. My wife walks into the kitchen while I’m sitting there, coat still on, staring at my phone.
“Success?” she says.
“If a chicken is success, then yeah,” I say.
“Chicken,” she says, with a hint of disappointment. A brief silence follows.
“Does a brace of pheasants mean a male and a female?” I say. My wife gazes into the air between us for a moment.
“Yes,” she says. “It does.” Her answer seems to me to be entirely tailored to the tone of my question. I have exposed my ignorance, and she is taking advantage of it.
“If you don’t know, that’s…”
“I do know,” she says. “It’s exactly the sort of thing I know.”
“I think that all you really know is that I don’t know,” I say.
“A brace,” she says, “is a male and a female.”
“Is it, though?” I say. She leans across the table and peers into the bag sitting in front of me, at the chicken.
“It’s a bit small, isn’t it?” she says.
“Maybe,” I say. “Should I have asked for a brace?” She pauses to give her answer a full measure of condescension.
“No,” she says.
