Meat Raffle
noun: meet raff-uhl
Instead of a neon-lit casino, imagine a bar with a scarred pool table and taxidermy on the walls. Instead of the ding-ding-ding of a slot machine rolling cherries, imagine a clattery wheel spinning a blur of numbers. Instead of a vested card dealer with slicked-back hair announcing your hand as “blackjack,” imagine a woman with a cigarette-roughened voice hollering, “Number seven? Number seven, get yourself up here and claim your meat!” You’re laying down a few bucks (for charity) and gambling for T-bones, sausages, pot roast. It’s a source of both entertainment and sustenance, and maybe it’s no coincidence that raffles are better attended in the winter, when the state feels like a deep chest freezer. You’ll come home with a belly full of beer and an armful of bratwurst and a smile on your face—and the supermarket will feel all the more boring by comparison.
