Annika Mayrhofer

I have been working behind the meat counter in a large supermarket for so long that it sometimes feels like a different world. Back when I started, the counter was always buzzing with customers, people asking about cuts of pork, beef, or lamb, sharing recipes, or chatting about their dinner plans. It made the day go by quickly. Now, it’s often just me, standing behind the glass, watching people walk straight past to the prepackaged section.

I’ve noticed the shift over the years. Here in Vienna, Austria, especially with the younger crowd, meat doesn’t seem to have the same appeal it once did. They ask for tofu, plant-based sausages, or oat milk more than they ever ask about a good schnitzel cut. The other day, a guy didn’t even look at the display. He asked me where the soy chorizo was and then moved on. It’s not that I mind change; it’s just that it leaves me with little to do but wait. And think.

I’ve lost the taste for meat myself. I used to love a good steak, but now I rarely cook it at home. Though, I haven’t taken to the alternatives much either. I find it funny, how these substitutes try so hard to look like the real thing—sausages that aren’t sausages, schnitzel made from soy. It’s like they’re trying to mimic something while rejecting it at the same time. I suppose that’s the point.

I’m 54 now, and I’ve been behind this counter for over three decades. Some days, it feels like I’ve been stuck in time, like the world moved on without me. I’m looking forward to retirement. It feels strange to say that out loud, but it’s true. The days feel so long now, and I’m not sure how much longer I want to stand here in my Viennese supermarket, waiting for customers who never come.