A third of a pound?!?!
I just noticed something when I was rewatching Fargo just now for the millionth time. In season 2 episode 2, Fatt Damon is working late at the butcher shop chopping up the body of Rye Gearhardt (sp? Mdrunk} when Officer Solverson knocks on his door. He comes in innocuously, of course. It’s after hours and he just has one little quick request for the neighborhood butcher before needs to go home to his wife, at home and sick with cancer. He just wants her to be able to cook a nice breakfast the next day. So what does he ask of the butcher? One third of a pound of bacon.
Are you fucking kidding me?! One third??? What is that, like four strips of bacon? Every fabric of my being that has ever worked in food service is boiling with rage as I caught this detail. You’re going to hold me up, after hours, after a busy day observing three entire people, and ask for just one measly third of a pound of bacon? And this is 1978, by the way. What is that, like… 35 cents?! No wonder Fatt Damon tells him it’s on the house. For the time that it would take officer Solverson to dig into his pocket for two quarters, Fatt Damon could have grown a slice of meat off his own gullet, and sliced it off to use for bacon. $0.35. Are you fucking kidding me? Minnesota is bonkers.