I liked
today’s quote when I picked it out. Once I saw it up on the chalkboard, I
realized I just made my morning difficult. It would be very hard
not to get into politics, civil rights, and justice with this
quote.
So, before I start talking
about meatballs I’m just going to say one word…..
Respect.
Half of you just started singing some Aretha
Franklin. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
If we want to bring ourselves into 2024 and get distance
from the Covid Era, we must work on respecting each other. Respect
each other and maybe we can finish this decade with some peace and
understanding.
Okay…… it’s National meatball
day. I’ve come a long way with my relationship with meatballs. From those first
little meatballs simmering in brown gravy in my mom’s crockpot to a meatball
sandwich wrapped tightly in several layers of white deli paper.
Many years ago, I stood on the rail of
the five-year note pit with an eight inch Fontanos. It had hot giardiniera and
mozzarella folded neatly around three luscious balls of meat. Just enough red
gravy to coat the meat and Italian bread.
I unwrapped this deli delight and started to devour it right there in the
trading pit. Bite by bite, no crumbs or sauce hit the ground. I kept a stack of
napkins in the pocket of my trading coat. Just In case…..
One hand was a Fontanos meatball sub and the other hand
were bids and offers. I was quoting the market to a wall of customers and
enjoying a sandwich simultaneously.
Food
wasn’t allowed on the floor, so I had to be cautious of any guards lurking
around. Eating on the trading floor was a five hundred dollar fine.
Slowly my sandwich was disappearing as the market
was three bid at four, trading fours, four bid, fours trading back offered at
four.
The fingers of my left hand never missed the market go four bid. While my right
hand was holding my lunch tightly.
The customers on the trading floor were quietly watching me do my job and eat a
meatball sub. Never missing the beat or making a mess. Fortunately, this was
before cell phones with cameras, or I would be on YouTube to this day.
Phone clerks standing at their desks on the floor were quoting their customers.
They were also explaining to them that their five-year arb clerk was eating a
Chicago delicacy. The entire financial community was watching the interest
rates and me eat my lunch.
Morgan Bank, Merrill Lynch, Deutsche Bank and Goldman Sachs were all informed
of the meatball sub getting devoured while the yield curve was bending behind
me.
Once I took that last bite. That last piece of crusty bread covered in red
gravy. Clean fingers, clean chin, clean trading pit. I balled up the white deli
paper and threw it in the garbage can and the floor erupted in ovation.
That entire side of the Board of Trade bond room cheered for what they just
witnessed. I filled a dozen orders, quoted the market and destroyed an
eight-inch meatball sub from Fontanos.
From a little boy eating Swedish meatballs on Christmas Eve to an arb clerk
quoting a financial futures contract. Meatballs have been a passion that evoke
fond memories.
So after yesterday’s difficult National Women’s Day treat yourself to a
meatball sandwich.
Six inches is too small. Twelve is too much. Peppers are a must, and a slice of
cheese holds it together better.
Happy Thursday Chalkheads!
Chicagoland has another massive snowstorm
approaching. Let’s hope it’s like the ten inches we received last week.
