Filly Monyawn By Jerry Carlile Two weeks before the big event, the lieutenant announced to the regiment at 0800 muster that, "A week from next Friday, fillet mignon will be served during the evening meal. All men who don't wish any, or who will not eat what they are served, will not take any. Inspectors, will be posted at the chow hall exits to report all men who throw any of the meat away. Those reported will be barred from the next two meals." "What's filly monyawn?" was the big question of the day. A farmer from Utah said it was probably horse meat, because fillies were young mares. A man from Pennsylvania claimed it was something imported from Philadelphia, and was spelled "P-h-i-l-l-y M-o-n-y-o-n." "What's Monyon then?" we asked these authorities. The easterner said it was probably a French word meaning "meat," and the farmer agreed with him because he couldn't think of any other explanation. Upon request, the company commander confided to us that he thought it was the choicest cut of an old leather shoe. No one in the outfit could remember ever having eaten it before. Every muster after that, we heard the same announcement, accompanied with the dire threats to those who wasted any. "Filly Monyawn" was the word on everybody's tongue. All conversations eventually considered it. Every man formed a personal definition of the words." At muster on the Friday morning of the great day, the lieutenant let the proverbial cat out of the bag. "It has come to my attention," said he, "that some of the men do not know what fillet mignon is. It is the very choicest cut of beef. The commissary has arranged this treat through considerable work and cost. If you do not care for this delicacy do not take any." Thus is was that at evening chow, we approached the servers with feelings of great anticipation. When my turn came, I looked once at the meat, and hesitated. It looked just exactly like the burned piece of bone I'd been served two nights before. But the lieutenant said it was choice, and a delicacy and a treat. Anyway, I'd probably never get another chance. Try everything once, I always say. "Okay, I'll take a hunk." That was a mighty good sized piece they slapped on my tray. Right then I began to question my ability to consume it, on the basis of size alone. I guess it was cooked wrong, or maybe my knife was dull. Maybe I was using the wrong side of that knife; I don't know. I was too fascinated at the whole affair to pay attention to details. But it was as easy to cut as was that bone last Wednesday. When I had chipped off a bit (a bit about the size of a pack of cigarets because that's where it broke), I conveyed it daintly to my mouth with thumb and forefinger. (I had a feeling I wouldn't be able to force my fork into it.) And then, ah, and then what a fine spare tire that stuff would have made. It tasted just exactly as beef should, but three minutes of chewing made no noticeable change in its size, nor had all this furious masticating produced results, as was the usual case, in breaking it into smaller pieces. My jaw muscles began to tire; so I ceased the activity temporarily to figure a solution. The only thing to do, it seemed, was to swallow it whole, but a real danger existed. Would it go down my throat? A guy could die doing things like that! But I had to chance it. I took a great drink of water, hoping to float it down, like a boulder in a river, whereupon it came to rest, refusing to be influenced by water. Maybe bread'd turn the trick. Try it anyway! Any port in a storm, you know. It worked all right, but so very slowly. Every swallow pushed it just a fraction of an inch. Eight swallows brought that piece of meat into my stomach. Now it was beyond my control. My stomach had the problem, and must handle it without my assistance. In this manner I consumed the biggest portion of the "filly monyawn" steak. I finished my meal, but not the meat. I simply couldn't hold the rest of it. On looking at the exit inspectors, and thinking of no food for a whole day, I realized that I could do most anything. I was on the verge of resorting to prayer, when I observed the man across the table drop a piece of meat into his coffee and walk with it into the scullery, unmolested. A marvelous idea! I went to the coffee urn and drew half a cup. In it I dunked the offensive meat, and assuming an innocent guise, walked out of the door to freedom. The other day I went downtown to eat. There on the menu were the words "Fillet Mignon . . . $1.25." I guess the stuff's really a classy dish, but the classy class can have my share. "Filly Monyawn." I say the words to myself, lift up my sleeve and laugh into it. Page twenty-two A College Conversationalist By James Engle One afternoon my telephone rang. When I answered it a voice said, "This is Western Union." Well, I have a friend who is always pulling gags that start out just about like that. So I thought to myself, I'll go along with this joker and see what he says. He proceeded to ask me if a Miss Betty Jo Engle resided there and was she there at the moment. I told him that she did but was not here at the present. He carried on quite a conversation asking me when she will be back. I told him she was in the wilds of the Belgian Congo hunting lions with Martin Johnson and would be back in the morning. This sort of took the guy back for a minute and he started laughing. In the meantime I had been noticing the rumble of the machinery in the background and realized that this was not my friend but the real thing. The talking continued. He asked me if this girl used to work at the Arsenal and I told him, "No, but she did work at Hill Field." It was getting terribly involved. I said to myself, how am I going to get out of it?" He was enjoying himself immensely thinking probably that I was as nutty as a fruit cake and I was even wondering myself. Finally I had to make some semblance of the truth or this character would not try to locate the real Betty Jo and the message might be very urgent speaking of someone's demise, or something equally as horrible. So I cleverly (I flatter myself) asked him to repeat the name again. He did so, naturally, just the way he did it at first and I retorted, "Oh, I thought you said Betty Jean Engle. "Why no, she doesn't live here." As if, "My God, man, can't you enunciate any better than that?" "THERE'S A TREE IN THE MEADOW" "I HAVEN'T A THING TO WEAR" Page twenty-three