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policeman’s shoulders. “Never for the boys in blue. Come see us soon, okay? My sister, Theresa, misses you. We all do.”
    Every panhandler got a dollar and a “Good luck to you.” “Rosalie—that’s my wife—thinks I’m too soft a touch, but I say, there but for the grace of God. I’d rather be a fool than hard-hearted.” He swiped a hand across the upturned nose that made his face so amiable.
    “There’s Benny!” He waved me across Carmine Street. “You have to meet him. I bet you don’t have any real butchers in Santa Barbara, and Benny’s one of the greats.”
    He led me proudly into a shop that looked as if it had been here, unchanged, for at least a hundred years. There was sawdust on the floor, and the clean forest scent hung in the air, mingling with the mineral aroma of good meat. Framed in bouquets of parsley, the various cuts were proudly displayed in a tall refrigerated cabinet. Sitting on topwas a huge old-fashioned roll of pink butcher paper; an antique dispenser of twine dangled above it. Photographs of customers were everywhere, and a huge calico cat sat curled on a bench, purring loudly.
    The man behind the counter had a bloodstained apron wrapped around his mountain of a body. He looked like an aging prizefighter, and everything about him—body, hands, even his feet—seemed thick. But when he smiled, I saw that the gap between his teeth made him less formidable. Sal pushed me forward. “Meet Billie. She’s just gone to work for Jake.”
    Benny held out a mammoth hand. “Come on back here.” He swept me behind the counter and through a heavy wooden door. It was dark and cold in the meat locker, and I found myself staring at a quarter of a steer hanging from a hook. “Look at that loin!” Benny swung the carcass onto a scarred slab of wood. “Do you know where the T-bone ends and the porterhouse begins?”
    I shook my head. He began cutting up the animal, and I stood watching, mesmerized. I’d never seen a real butcher work, and Benny was as precise as a surgeon as he showed me how the muscles met, his knife flashing down with incredible speed, carving up steaks, roasts, and chops. Benny’s whole appearance changed when he had a knife in his hand, each motion so sure and economical that the bulky torso became graceful. It was like watching a bullfight, without the thrilling terror of the kill.
    Benny held up a long loin of prime aged meat, its exterior hardened into a crust the color of withered roses. Picking up a thin blade, he trimmed the crust off with a single pass of the knife. The meat beneath was bright red and heavily marbled with fat. “Some people think that wet-aging in Cryovac is just as good as dry-aging. Sure, it’s cheaper. Sure, it’s easier. But the only way you get a respectable steak is you let it hang a few weeks. Me? I like twenty-six days, but some like it longer. Concentrates the flavor. No other way to do it.” He sheared off the thinnest sliver. “Open your mouth.”
    It was like nothing I’d tasted before, the rich slice melting onto mytongue, its texture so soft I barely needed to chew. The flavor, on the other hand, was potent, filling my mouth with the slight tang of iron. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything more wonderful.”
    Benny beamed.
    “You’re lucky, kid.” Sal touched my arm. “The old-time butchers are dying out. Take a lesson when it’s offered. That’s why you came to New York, right?”
    “Yeah,” Benny chimed in. “This is the Neanderthal approach, but it works. And New Yorkers, thank God, they appreciate an artisan.”
    “Benny’s amazing,” I said when we were back on the street.
    “He doesn’t always open up like that. Benny’s stingy with his talent, but I think he saw something special in you. You want to know the truth? It was a treat for me too; that’s the first time he’s let me watch him butcher an entire hindquarter.”
    “Do you know everyone in every shop in this neighborhood?”
    “Pretty