Cabot’s
“Uncle Manny died in the freezer.”
This was what I heard every time we drove by Cabot’s. We lived in Los Angeles and whenever we would come to visit my husband’s family in Boston, I would hear that fateful line uttered. I came to associate Cabot’s, that 60’s era brick building we frequently passed on Washington Street, as the place where Uncle Manny had died in the freezer. I didn’t know anything about Uncle Manny, but I imagined him to be some tough mafioso who met an unfortunate demise.
Cabot’s is the local, family owned, old-fashioned ice cream parlor and diner. It’s been around since 1969. It’s the place everyone goes when they’re seeking a reward for passing a test, winning a game, or just in need of some hometown comfort food. Grandparents are often found treating a grand-kid to an indulgent ice cream lunch, while in silent agreement that mom and dad don’t need to know.
Given my love of ice cream, to this day I don’t understand why it took us four years of visiting the east coast to finally step foot into Cabot’s. However, after taking a red eye on a flight from Los Angeles on a frigid February morning in 2015, I requested we go to Cabot’s. There was 13 feet of snow on the ground.
It was the worst winter Boston had seen in years. I had lived in NYC for 11 years and had never seen this much snow. There was a tunnel shoveled from the driveway to the front door. So it made perfect sense, on one of the coldest days of the year, to go for breakfast and ice cream at 10 in the morning.
As a cash crunched artist living in New York City I’ve long held a fondness for diners. There was a silent but shared mutual respect with the staff. So I guess it stands to reason that when I set foot inside Cabot’s, I immediately fell in love with it.
We sat down at the old-fashioned booth. I don’t think Cabot’s has had any major remodeling since they opened in 1969. Everything is clean; nothing looks worn or tired, but you definitely feel like you are stepping back in time as you walk through the front door and into the brightly decorated red and white nostalgia. The kitchen and ice cream prep area are directly in the center of the restaurant, where you can watch everyone’s order being made by teenagers working their first job. This is the charm of Cabot’s. It’s not the quality of food or the sweetness of the ice cream. It’s watching it be prepared. The globs of hot fudge being poured onto heaping piles of ice cream. The old-fashioned nozzle spraying out whip cream. The servers balancing a plate of ice cream in one hand while they generously pour jimmies on top with the other. It’s witnessing children’s eyes wide with excitement and anticipation that all this sugary goodness is about to be theirs.
After we ordered, my father-in-law once again, said the fateful line that follows any mention or passing of Cabot’s “You know, my brother died in the freezer here.” I dug my spoon into my just delivered Moose Tracks Sundae. The hot fudge was already making the ice cream melt and the gooey consistency was a perfect mixture.
“What happened?” I asked. I conjured this image of Uncle Manny being tossed into the Charles with two tubs of Cookies and Cream for cement shoes.
“My father immigrated to the United States from Latvia as a child in the early 1900s. In 1915 he started a pushcart business, selling salted meats in Boston’s West End. Several years after that he opened up his first restaurant in the West End, and that grew to a chain of delis by the end of the 1920s. There was a Barney Sheff’s Restaurant in every major neighborhood in Boston.”
My father in law never gives a direct answer. There is always a meandering story. He went on…
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“My father was an honorable man, known for his kindness and honesty. If you couldn’t afford a meal, he’d invite you in, offer you a seat at the counter and a meal on the house. The local paper ran a story detailing how he had returned a pile of cash he found to a patron who had accidentally left it behind.”
One of the many reasons I fell in love with my husband and his family was the kindness and generosity they show to everyone they encounter. I was starting to see the inspiration behind the values I had long admired.
He went on, “Shortly after opening the Watertown location, the army decided to put in a Nike Base to protect the Arsenal, which forced all the businesses in its path to close. This was the ultimate nail in the coffin for Barney Sheff’s Restaurants. The loss was too great and they were forced to close most of their locations. Manny continued to manage a location on Route 9 and eventually became a meat dealer.”
“A meat dealer?” I asked. I had this vision of Manny dealing out slices of salami like they were cards in a Blackjack game.
“A meat dealer gets meat directly from the source, and sells it at a cost lower than wholesale. Manny had a bunch of accounts as a dealer. Cabot’s was one of them.” He replied. “Ahh.” I replied, disappointed. I liked my idea of Manny as a quick-draw salami slinger better.
“I have the article about the found money at home.” My father in law informs me. “I’ll show it to you when we get back.” As is so common in my husband’s family, subjects change rapidly and I was once again left without an answer.
I had always known my husband’s family had a passion and a history with deli, but now I understood just how deep that history was. Deli runs through their veins. It’s in their blood. I think it’s the unwritten 11th Commandment, because they worship and eat deli with a religious dedication. They have all suffered and sacrificed in the name and honor of deli. My father-in-law went into mourning when his cardiologist told him he could no longer eat tongue.
It took my being in the family for five years before I could admit an awful truth to my in-laws…I hate deli. This confession was almost as heartbreaking as my allegiance to the Yankees. To make matters worse, deli is served at every gathering and event in my husband’s family. Someone gets engaged. Deli. Someone graduates. Deli. Jewish holiday. Deli. Someone dies. Deli. I can usually be seen in the corner with a plate of fruit, and will inevitably be told that I’m wasting away and should eat more.
However, in a time before the internet, cable TV, and all the other modern distractions that prevent us from meaningful human interaction, Jewish delis were more than just a restaurant. They were a gathering place. They were the place where you went to celebrate, to mourn, to socialize. It’s where politicians schmoozed and deals were made in smoke-filled back rooms. There is an autographed photo of Tip O’Neill that hangs on my in-law’s wall. Inscribed on the photo is a message from Speaker O’Neill, extolling the virtues and fond memories he has from numerous Barney Sheff’s Restaurants in a bygone era. The Jewish deli experience was less about the food and more about the people and Uncle Manny was the embodiment of this.
As I was getting to know my husband’s family more, this bad-ass mafia persona I’d created for Manny was in direct conflict with everything I’ve known his family to be. As a little kid, my husband remembers Manny as the guy with the jovial laugh and an endless supply of Freshmint Tic Tacs. I came to learn that the man I perceived to be tough and tempered was actually a gregarious and generous family man. His untimely death was the result of a heart attack while making a routine meat delivery to Cabot’s.
A year ago, my husband and I moved in with my in-laws. Cabot’s immediately became a refuge when we wanted to escape the noise pollution of living with the elderly. Cabot’s is by no means a quiet place. But instead of hearing a 24 hour news cycle, we hear the sounds of joy and laughter. The gratification that an ice cream sundae can buy accompanied by the innocence of youth. It’s the sounds of celebration, bonds being formed, milestones and accomplishments being acknowledged.
Earlier this year, after one of our many trips, I found myself stuck in an ice cream rut. I seemed to order a Moose Track Sundae every time we visited. Recognizing the value of setting measurable goals, I set out to try all 45 flavors of ice cream that Cabot’s offers within a year. I found an unexpected spicy and sweet delight in Ginger ice cream and a sweet coziness in Blueberry Pie ice cream. I was forced to stretch the defined boundaries of Sundae when I tried Death by Chocolate Ice Cream with Peanut Butter sauce. My lactose-intolerant husband looked on, happily consuming his corned beef hash with hot sauce. I did a little happy dance with each newly discovered bite. He laughed, happy that it takes so little to please his wife.
With Cabot’s we have somehow found a compromise and a blending of the cultures with our two families. Deli and dairy celebrate each other’s differences. Corned Beef Hash and Butter Pecan ice cream coexist in perfect harmony with one another. Cabot’s has connected our past with our present. Instead of a smoke-filled back room, we celebrate and schmooze over sundaes, but the spirit of Barney Sheff’s and Uncle Manny is ever present.
