They say you should never see how the sausage is made. Too bad, because it would have helped solve one of the biggest mysteries to hit Montreal’s working-class enclave of Ville-Émard since Jack the Barber faked his own death and Mario the Tailor was hypnotized in the storefront of a furniture store.
To be fair, the Jack Devils stunt – his friends called him that because of his love of playful mischief and fiendish jokes – was solved the moment he popped up from the casket in his own living room to gasps and howls – of laughter. And the Mario incident was but a schoolboy lark that happened long before he ever cut cloth. His crime was cutting school, according to a busybody neighbour who witnessed the aftermath of his fainting spell at the store’s promotional event. His punishment came at the hands of his mother who wouldn’t buy his alibi that he was sleeping on the clearance sale sofa because of the celebrity hypnotist’s spell. “I got such a beating when I got home!” said il sartoro. Two victimless crimes for the most part. Nothing to see here.
The sausage saga, on the other hand, remains a cold case that has run hot among the passionate paisans in the city blocks running east-west on goodhearted Jolicoeur and north-south along the Catholic-compliant d’Aragon, followed by all-for-one Dumas and a trio of streets comprising the largely tre colori community, beginning at Hurteau, followed by Mazarin and then Jogues. It’s at the end of Jogues, near the steel wall of the steelmaker formerly known as Dosco, that a particular type of martyrdom was forged by the biggest, self-proclaimed victim of il caso delle salsicce.
Within this Azzurri Square Mile there were no less than four Italian grocers and an Italian barber – but not Jack Devils’ place, as he was closer to the Greeks on Monk. This was not far from the original Dilallo’s (home of the famous Buck Burger, and whose hamburger meat is also a matter of some controversy – more on that later), near what would become Mario the Tailor’s shop. There was also a deli-type restaurant that sold candies in the front – rumour has it that it had a room in the back where the men played cards, threw dice and bet on electric car racing on a track made for kids. That’s where this crime story begins.
Paul’s was the blue-collar meeting place for the labourers and tradespeople who worked at places like the local steel mill, or factories along the Lachine Canal, or the train yards in farther-off Point St-Charles. It was the kind of place that helped bind the fabric of the ethnic neighbourhood – owned by an Italian, serving Italian-inspired fast food that attracted a mainly Italian clientele. Kids who went there for the candies called him Uncle Paul for his avuncular charm and smiling eyes and, charmingly, because that’s what you called close family friends and neighbours out of respect. Your father would simply call it Paul’s, which meant you would never gamble to go there, especially when your “old man” was holding court with his cronies.
“There was an unwritten rule back in the day that basically said you couldn’t go to the same place your father hung out,” said Luigi V. (Full identities are concealed to protect the innocent.) “My buddy’s father used to go to Paul’s so we would have to head down to another diner a few blocks away and order a Coke and a bag of chips and sit in the booth until the owner of that place kicked us out. You had to respect the rules.”
Whether Paul’s or Uncle Paul’s, the restaurant sizzled with customers, mainly thanks to the local foot traffic along Jolicoeur. The ubiquitous family car of modern times was not yet a thing for the paycheque-to-paycheque reality of the working class in the mid- to late-1960s. Their concern was more about “putting food on the table,” paying down the duplex and, if everything worked out, having a bit of extra cash at the end of the week to grab a snack and throw some dice (allegedly). You walked to Paul’s, whether you were a father going down to “the corner” to see the boys; or you ran, if you were a kid with a shiny nickel or dime and visions of candy – unless, of course your father was there.
The décor was distinctly Art Deco-deli. At the front, on the left, was the beast of a cash register that made a ringing sound as it rung up sales, and right next to it was the glass-fronted candy display. Chrome-rimmed swivel stools lined a counter with a grill and cutting board behind. On the right side, booths with orange vinyl-covered benches ran the length of the wall. (The off-track, including the miniature track, was said to be in the back.) The grill was the main attraction, more precisely the Philibert, which, depending on who you ask, was either a novel take on a burger or a simple, but scrumptious, sausage sandwich.
“To me, it was a pork hamburger,” said Luigi V. “I think it was pink because they added paprika to it. Who knows? It was fantastic!”
“Mah, get outta’ here,” said Mike B. “It was sliced Italian sausage on a bun.”
“Alone with a bit of mustard, it was the best!,” said Lana R.
While there may be some debate surrounding its form and composition, there is full agreement on the gustatory sensory memory of anyone who ever burnt their tongue on a Philibert: it was delicious. Thinly sliced, it perfectly blended saltiness with a hint of fennel and the back-end punch of paprika. Grilled quick and served hot, it was the reason sandwiches were invented. But what of its curious name?
Grilli. (Crickets.)
No one source contacted for this story, not even under the promise of anonymity, could recall why the best sausage this side of Little Italy came to be known as Philibert. Was it some kind of play on the Paul or Paul’s, re: the “P”? Was it related to the famous painting The Sausage Merchant by the French artist Louis-Philibert Debucourt? (Thank you Google.) Was it a made-up word like Google? Chi lo sa? Paul himself has long since passed and even among his near-contemporaries, like Mario the Tailor, all you get is an Italian shrug when asked. There was even some disagreement over “PH” versus “F” until it was resolved that “PH” survived the next iteration of Paul’s when new owners took over the restaurant and renamed it Le Roi du Philibert sometime in the late-1970s, early ’80s. (Its reign was short lived.) The sausage survived, however, and could be had directly from a wholesaler in Laval.
What wholesaler? Where in Laval? Just more missing links in this sausage story.
Turns out, Carmen the Butcher, owner of the saw-dust-covered-floor grocer across from Paul’s back in the day, supplied the sausage for the famous Philibert. Interestingly, he also sold hamburger meat to Dilallo’s, including when the iconic restaurant introduced its signature Buck Burger (it cost a dollar) at its flagship location on Monk in the early 1970s.
“They ran out of meat one weekend so they called me,” Carmen explained during an impromptu discussion on the steps of his grocery several years ago, he in his signature three-quarters length white butcher’s coat. “They sold a thousand burgers in two days,” he said, with no small hint of pride.
That was Carmen’s side of the patty. Luigi V., who used to make a buck flipping burgers at Dilallo’s, turned that version upside-down like the Buck Burger itself. (The top bun is on the bottom and the bottom on the top, and it also comes with cheese, capicola and hot peppers because it’s an Italian creation after all.) He claims a different source of the meat.
“I remember our supplier was in Ville St-Pierre,” he said in short order. “We were only allowed to use them.” [Editor’s note: Do these Ville-Émarders agree on nothing?!]
Anyway, Carmen was the source of sausage, certo, and, unlike his operatic eponym, he would prefer to be paid for his efforts to spread its love, thank you very much. After supplying Paul’s in its heyday, he would later cater to the long-surviving customers living out their retirement years with fond memories of ’60s ballroom dancing at the Messini Hall, across and down the street from the deli, followed by the snack of all late-night snacks. Like my aunt on my wife’s side.
It was common for Giselda L. to order Philibert through Carmen while he still had his store and even after he sold it and took his butchering talents to a chain grocer at the mall. Happy to oblige, he would drive to his secret Laval supplier, pick up the individual orders and drop them off at the homes of his various customers in the ’hood. It was a cash-only deal and included a small mark-up so he could wet his beak. His mistake, though, and the firestorm it sparked, was to one day remove about 96 percent of the sticker on the wax cardboard box containing the sausage before he handed the succulent goods off to my aunt at her place on rue Jogues across from the fiery steel mill. It was the remaining four percent, essentially a small corner of the sticker with some remanent glue, that set things alight.
The first call was to my wife who mutually knows Carmen and was well aware of his sausage-sourcing skills. (My father-in-law, Bert, was a client.) The aunt claimed to have been tricked, cheated and insulted, suspecting that Carmen wasn’t being honest about the cost of the sausage, the evidence being the removed sticker.
“Why would he tear the sticker off the box?!” was her accusation. “I’ll tell you why: It’s because he doesn’t want me knowing that I pay him more than it costs him!” was her judgement.
“But, Auntie,” the reasoning voice of my wife kicking in, “I know Carmen, he’s a good man who probably just wants to cover his gas and time.”
“Never mind! The sticker was removed!”
The second call was from my cousin, my aunt’s son. He’s a respected businessman who understands the principle of supply and demand and has been known to turn a profit himself every now and then with the various companies he owns and manages; markup he knows. After recounting the accusations made by his mom to Ron L., he paused and then, in a low voice that crescendoed into a bark, declared: “Carmen is going down!” (He was no doubt stabbing his index finger into his desktop for emphasis at the other end of the call.)
She got to him first. It was obvious. There would be no reasoning with either of them, not the matriarch and now not the heir. In fact, Ron vowed to locate the sausage source through a butcher friend of his on the West Island. He was on a mission.
“I will find the supplier myself and there will be no more middle man,” he said. “No more removed stickers!”
Oof, those stickers!
Anyway, that was about five years ago and, although Carmen may be the solo tragic figure of this opera, he was good at covering his tracks – letting his guard down with the sticker notwithstanding. My aunt and cousin never found the wholesaler and, while there have been other sausages at family events since, there would be no Philibert, not since Carmen’s final act.
And that might be the only real crime in this story.
Things come and things go, no problem, but certain things like food, problem. Smells and tastes can transport us back to good times and fun places by perfectly blending aromas of comfort and joy. They affix to our memories as perfectly as a sausage to a bun. So when spots like Paul’s and Momesso’s and the Bar-B-Barn fade and shutter, memories of them do not. Where’s the crime in that? None, except the painful longing for a time when you could walk to a neighbourhood diner owned by your “uncle,” grab a sandwich, enjoy the company of friends and maybe throw some dice.
