Filet Mignon

It all started in the early seventies when I was a beginning undergraduate student at Boston University. I was still attending the Metropolitan College, working days and living in my workshop on Sherman Street in Boston’s Charlestown neighborhood.

I think the where needs some comment. The building was a huge subdivided nineteenth-century loft building: my neighbors were other artists, a wooden butcher block maker, and a coffin maker.

Life at Sherman Street

Life in the building was interesting. We were socialable. The butcher block maker provided the scrap wood for evening fire pits, one of the artists was also a great storyteller, and the coffin maker provided the coffins for our rooftop parties – they make great cooler chests. Life was good.

I lived in the building with my cat Clancy, a large, handsome grey cat with a predilection towards violence. Clancy patrolled the corridors and workplaces at night with his buddy, the double-pawed cat named Jean La Foote. The two were popular in the building because of their ability to eliminate mice and the occasional burglar.

Yes, that’s right, burglar. One night when I was away, someone was unfortunate enough to break into my space. The trail of blood led to a bathroom. When I returned in the morning, the police were there and asked me to distract the cats. The two cats had a bloodied burglar up on the toilet, fearful for his life.

The First Filet

But all the above is a distraction. This is really a post about Clancy, my father, a butcher, and Filet Mignon.

My father was a building maintenance supervisor in New York City, which is a super with capital letters because it has multiple buildings. In my dad’s case, it was a reasonably large corporation with many buildings, mainly in the East Bronx. These were not residential units; they were commercial. The tenants ranged from dentists, physicians, graphic artists, printers, clothiers, and butchers.

My father’s arrival at work most mornings was rather exceptional. Late model car, exceptional custom-tailored suit, best shoes, diamond pinky rings, and a stylish hat. Once inside the basement shop, he changed into the exact type of working uniform he’d worn as an engineer in the Merchant Marine. At the end of the day, before going home, he changed back into his suit and departed the facility in style. So how did a super, super, so to speak, manage to look like he was the owner or at least a corporate executive? To borrow a term from another New Yorker in the real estate trade, it was all the “art of the deal.”

Most services for these companies were covered by the rental contracts. But sometimes the businesses wanted things not covered, or just “special.” In that case, Nick, my dad, was called upon, and a deal was made. The jeweler wanted some special equipment moved and mounted just so? A deal was made for some nice Jewelry for my mother. The men’s apparel shop needed something special? Of course! Nick needed a new custom-tailored suit. All of the tenants made for a nicely integrated backdoor business that my father conducted with the full knowledge of his employers.

The Whole Filet and Nothing But the Whole Filet

But it was the local butcher that is especially relevant for this story. Nick Carreras found out that I was subsisting on canned beans and franks in my loft. This would not do. His friend, the butcher, began providing whole filet mignon, which were then frozen solid and shipped off to me in Boston.

A whole filet mignon lasted me a while. But I had help. My cat Clancy, you do remember that this story is about him, right? Clancy soon developed an affection for filet mignon. Who wanted mere cat food when God’s own best creation for cats was within reach? His friend Jean was an oft-invited guest to their culinary soirees. They became snobbish about preparation, just the natural sauce, and a few mushrooms. Please!

This went on until my dad moved to Virginia, and the source of filet ended. But even years later, all I had to say was filet mignon, and the cat’s attention became riveted on my words. He came to know the words for roast beef, beef steak, and other red-blooded cuts, but they were strictly second-class cuts for, pardon my bad French – “les chatts amis d’Esoffier.” He was a snob.