“I’ll take the dog. You should get Tristan to watch the shop,” he suggested. “You pay him anyway. Make him work for it.”
4
Needing to walk off the tacos and champagne, I followed Central to High Street and turned south three blocks to Coal. I passed under Interstate 25 and arrived at Tristan’s apartment in the jumble of rental houses and apartments just south of the University of New Mexico campus.
Tristan is the grandson of my great aunt Beatrice. I don’t know what kinship relation that creates, but I call him my nephew and he calls me Uncle Hubert. He also calls me when he needs money, which explains Martin’s snide remark.
Tristan was asleep, the antemeridian being unknown to him. I had acquired a brace of breakfast burritos along the way at Duran Central Pharmacy for use as an alarm clock. I stuck them under his nose after letting myself in with my key, and they worked.
“Duran’s?” he asked groggily. The kid has his uncle’s nose for food.
While Tristan was in the bathroom throwing cold water on his face, I hit the brew button on his coffeemaker.
I told him about Santiago Molinero while he ate, and he responded like everyone else.
“You better get your money in advance.”
“That’s what Susanna and Martin both said. Do I make Molinero sound that untrustworthy?”
“Molinero may be fine for all I know, but most restaurants fail within the first year.”
“O.K., I’ll tell him I need the money up front.” I thought about it for a minute and said, “I might be relieved if he says no. I could use the money, but I don’t feel comfortable with this project.”
He had a mouthful of burrito, so he raised his eyebrows by way of asking for an explanation.
“I don’t want to relocate to Santa Fe, even short term. I don’t know about making pots in a restaurant that’s under construction. But my worst fear is I won’t be able to come up with a design. I copy things. I’m not a creative artist.”
“So just chose a great design from your inventory and copy it.”
“It’s an Austrian restaurant. I don’t think they have Anasazi symbols in Vienna.”
“Do a goat herder in lederhosen,” he suggested.
“You’re a big help.”
He started in on the second burrito with such gusto that I began to think I should have brought three. He has a layer of baby fat, but he’s not really overweight. His dark hair hangs in short ringlets, and what the girls call his bedroom eyes are midnight blue.
“If I take the job, I’ll need someone to tend the store.”
He swallowed the last bite of burrito. “I can do that.”
“What about your classes?”
He gave me one his big easy smiles. “Even if I close for a couple of hours a day for classes, Uncle Hubert, I’ll still be open more than you are.”
He was right, of course. But with my customer demand, what difference does it make how often I’m open? Plus, I might be making big bucks in Santa Fe provided I got paid before the place went bankrupt.
5
Thinking about Santa Fe reminded me of Frank Aquirre teaching us about the 1607 founding of Jamestown. Two ironies came to mind.
First, 1607 was also the year Santa Fe was founded. But that didn’t make the history books at Albuquerque High School. I guess they were all published back East. Jamestown was described as the first European settlement in the new world. From which I deduced in the steel trap mind I had in those days that either Spain was not considered part of Europe or Santa Fe was not considered part of the new world.
The second irony was that I had started dating Aguirre’s daughter that summer.
The hotel now known as La Fonda was also founded in 1607. The rambling stuccoed building on the southeast side of the Plaza is not the original structure, but it looks like it could be with its ornately-carved wood vigas and hand-made floor tiles. La Fonda (Spanish for ‘Inn’) has been the meeting place for conquistadores, Indians, priests, cowboys, artists, peddlers and politicians for over four centuries.
As I stood by the registration desk scanning the couches and chairs in the lobby, all those groups and more were represented. The menagerie of eccentrics, posers, tourists, hawkers, Indians, Hispanics, turquoise-bedecked blondes, pony-tailed men, bikers, and local Sufis was so oddly diverse that it might have been a caucus at the Democratic National Convention.
The guy I was looking for fit right in. But then who wouldn’t in a crowd like that? He wore a white tunic with a stiff collar and harlequin pants with a drawstring. As I neared him, I could read the embroidery on the tunic – ‘Schnitzel’ in bold red letters with “Chef Kuchen’ in black script just below.
Kuchen stood up as I approached and towered over my five foot six inches. He had broad shoulders, a square jaw, and a crushing handshake.
“Gunter Kuchen,” he announced, and I thought I heard the click of heels.
“Hubert Schuze,” I muttered as I winced from his grip.
“Ah, Schuze. It is German, yes?”
“It is German, no,” I answered.
“Yes, of course. You are too short.” He waved a long arm around the room. “Everyone in New Mexico is short. Because of the diet, yes?”
“Perhaps,” I said, not wanting to argue the point.
“We will have coffee,” he said as he strode off towards the French Café that opens onto the lobby.
The coffee and pastries in the French Café are delicious, and it was late enough in the morning that there was actually a table available. I selected a palmier and Herr Kuchen took a brioche.
“The pastries here are good,” I opined.
“The ones at Schnitzel will be better. I have a pâtissier, Machlin Masoot, who knows well the Viennoiseries.”
I had no idea what that meant. I wasn’t even sure what language it was in. Perhaps the Austrian equivalent of Spanglish.
“Why did you seek this meeting,” he asked?
“I want to discuss a proposal made to me by Mr. Molinero.”
He stuck out his already prominent jaw and said, “In that case, I do not think I can be of assistance to you. Molinero knows nothing of food.”
“But he’s starting a restaurant.”
“No!” he contradicted me sharply. “He starts only the business. I start the restaurant.”
“Hmm. Well, the question I have is not a food question, but I’ll ask you anyway.”
“As you please.”
“Molinero wants me to design and create chargers. But my specialty is Native American. I have no idea what design would be appropriate for an Austrian restaurant.”
He leaned back in his chair and the sun glinted off his smooth blond hair. “I cannot imagine why Molinero would select you for this task. Santa Fe drowns in local culture. I came to introduce Österreichische Küche.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Austrian cuisine,” he translated.
“Then you are just the man to suggest a proper design,” I said.
“Of course,” he agreed. “You must use Lederhosen.”
6
Susannah drained the last sip from her first margarita. “He actually suggested lederhosen?”
“So did Tristan.”
“Yeah, but Tristan was kidding. So what did you say to Kuchen? Surely you’re not seriously considering lederhosen.”
I’d arrived back in Albuquerque just in time for the cocktail hour. I was nursing my margarita because the only thing I’d eaten all day was the palmier, and the tequila seemed to be coursing directly into my bloodstream.
Susannah idly twirled her empty glass. “Although,” she said slowly, “cartoonish lederhosen might work for a casual Austrian restaurant.”
“They want me to make chargers, remember?”
“Oh, right. I guess Schnitzel won’t have a drive-thru window or golden Alps arches.”
“No. Herr Kuchen has come to introduce Österreichische Küche.”
“Who’s he, the chef?”
>
“No. Kuchen is the chef.”
“Yeah, but maybe this Ostrich guy is the Chef de cuisine.”
“That’s different from just a chef?”
“There’s a hierarchy, Hubie. The top guy is the Chef de cuisine. Then there’s a sous chef, a chef de partie and all sorts of other positions.”
“Well, Kuchen is definitely the top guy. I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“So who’s the Ostrich guy?”
“It isn’t a guy. I probably said it wrong. It means Austrian cuisine.”
“Which consists of what?”
“The only dish I can think of is the name of the restaurant.”
“Schnitzel. It’s a fried pork chop, right?”
“I think it’s veal.”
“Yuk. Veal should be illegal.”
“This from a rancher girl?”
“Yeah, city folks don’t know how cute little calves are. It’s mean to kill them before they have a chance to grow up.”
I decided to change the subject and find out more about her new love interest.
She signaled Angie for a second round and a new bowl of chips because I had hogged all the first ones in the hope they would soak up some of the alcohol.
“In a word,” she said, “he’s tall, dark, and handsome.”
“That’s more than a word,” I snapped.
“Here’s another word. He’s articulate and charming.”
Yeah, and named ‘Ice’ I thought to myself. “Maybe his charm is just a front. Freddie was charming at first, too.”
“I know, and look how that turned out. I tell you, Hubie, after the string of losers I’ve dated the last couple of years, I figure I’m due for a good guy.”
“The last guy, Chris, was a good guy,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, he was. Handsome too. Unfortunately, he made a pass at you rather than me, so I think we can chalk that up as another misadventure in the saga of Susannah’s love life. What about you, Hubie? How are things with Dolly Aguirre?”
“Good, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Well, we don’t see each other all that much. She can’t stay the night at my place because she has to be home to take care of her father, and I don’t like spending the night at her house because her father’s in the next bedroom.”
“I know you’re a man, Hubert, but there are places to spend time together other than the bedroom.”
“Sure, but where’s the fun in that?”
She took a playful swing at me from across the table.
I loaded a chip with salsa and ate it. “We do other things – lunch, take Geronimo for walks. I even gave her a lesson in pot making.”
“How did she do?”
“She didn’t like getting clay between her fingers.”
Susannah was silent for a moment, her head canted as if engaged in an internal debate. “Does it bother you that she was married?”
“Not so much as not wanting clay between her fingers.”
She laughed.
“In fact,” I said, “it doesn’t bother me at all. She’s forty two years old. I’d be more worried if she hadn’t been married. Like maybe something was wrong with her.”
“You’re even older than forty two, Hubie, and you’ve never been married.”
“Yeah, but I’m a man.”
“Oink.”
“Well, it may not be politically correct, but men are still usually the ones who propose. If a woman has never received a marriage proposal, there’s probably a reason. But if a man has never made a proposal, it’s because he has chosen not to.”
She leaned towards me slightly. “Here’s a news flash, Hubert. Women decide if and when a man will propose to them. Men are just too stupid to realize they’re being led. You guys like to be in control, so we let you think you are.”
“I have no illusions about being in control. I have no idea where my relationship with Dolly is going.”
“But you like being with her.”
“Yeah. She’s fun to be with. She likes my cooking. She even liked the chile verde popcorn I took to her house on Thursday.”
“I assume she invited you to see a film.”
“Yeah, Minority Report. I hated it.”
“That’s because you only like old movies.”
“The problem with Minority Report wasn’t its age, it was its premise.”
“You didn’t like the idea of figuring out that people were going to commit a crime and stopping them in advance?”
“Maybe the idea would have worked better if it didn’t depend on three psychics in a big hot tub rolling out a PowerBall thingy with the type of crime and perpetrator written on it. I couldn’t believe Dolly liked it.”
“Maybe she thinks Tom Cruise is hot. You should be flattered, Hubie. He’s short, handsome, and clean-shaven. Just like you.”
“Hmm. She did like Valkyrie.”
She laughed. “Critics called that one the Tom Cruise eye-patch movie. But there was another symbol that bothered me more than the patch.”
“The swastika?”
“The edelweiss.”
“The little white flower in that corny song from The Sound of Music?”
“Art historians are big on iconography, Hubie.”
“O.K., I’ll bite. What does the edelweiss stand for?”
She pulled a pencil out of her purse and wrote on a napkin. Then she rotated it so I could read it, and it looked like this: edelweiß.
“O.K.,” I admitted, “It looks a little less harmless with the weird German thing at the end, but why did it bother you?”
“Because it was on the uniform collars of the Bavarian Mountain Fighters in the Nazi army. The guy Cruise played – von Stauffenberg – was one of them.”
“So?”
“Don’t you think it’s creepy that people who wear a little white flower as a symbol could kill millions of innocent people?”
“But von Stauffenberg was one of the good guys, right? He tried to assassinate Hitler.”
“Only after he helped lead the invasion of Poland and did a lot of other really bad things.”
“I didn’t know that. Anyway, there are probably lots of military symbols that seem strange when you… Edelweiss! Of course. Maybe that’s what I should put on the chargers.”
7
On Friday afternoon, Tristan helped me load my potter’s wheel, slab roller and kiln into the Bronco, and I headed to Santa Fe. My supplies were supposed to arrive on Saturday, and I wanted to be there to receive them.
Molinero and I had reached an agreement that I would work at the restaurant to produce a glazed and fired prototype charger. Once he approved it, I would make ninety nine copies, but we would have them fired at a commercial pottery place called Feats of Clay. The cutesy name didn’t bother me. I knew they could handle the firing because it was where I had taken my first lessons. I couldn’t fire a hundred plates in my small kiln until well after the restaurant was scheduled to open, which was why Molinero had agreed to using Feats of Clay.
The order was for four hundred pounds of grolleg kaolin, a clay that fires very white and has excellent thermal shock properties. I had it shipped to Schnitzel along with some glazing chemicals.
I couldn’t get Molinero to pay my fee in advance, but he did agree to pay for the materials when they arrived. He also charged my hotel room to Schnitzel’s account and told me I could take all my meals free at the restaurant as the staff were doing.
Molinero had leased a building on Paseo de Paralta, not far from the intersection with Canyon Road. The equipment installations had been completed, and they were now in the process of testing everything from the accuracy of oven temperature settings to how best to load the delicate stemware into the commercial dishwashers.
Kuchen demanded that every recipe be prepared multiple times on the new equipment to make sure everyone knew the processes required and to find out if any adjustments needed to be made. The practice cooking produced th
e food for the staff. Unfortunately, Schnitzel – like most haute cuisine restaurants – would not be serving breakfast. This resulted in some odd morning meals.
I checked in to La Fonda around five and couldn’t get my mind off the fact that I was missing the cocktail hour with Susannah. I hung some clothes in the closet and put some others in the chest of drawers. I put my toiletry bag on the shelf next to the lavatory. I opened the window in the bathroom and looked out at the airshaft.
Despite the fact that I knew full well I’d be alone in a hotel room, I had forgotten to bring any reading material. I had read the Bible years ago, and I figured the Gideon version in the nightstand probably contained no new chapters. The only other book had both white and yellow pages. I used it to locate the nearest bookstore.
I walked the three blocks to Collected Works Bookstore on the corner of Galisteo and Water Street. Since I was going to be immersed in a restaurant, I figured I should learn more about them, so I bought Ma Cuisine and Memories of My Life, both by Auguste Escoffier, the famous chef who devised one of the two systems of organization and process used by restaurants. Fortunately, both books were English translations. The other widely-used restaurant system was devised by Ray Kroc. They didn’t have any books by him.
I entered Schnitzel for the first time at nine the next morning, lugging my potter’s wheel.
“We have people who do that,” shouted Kuchen when he saw me struggling under the weight. He turned to a large black man. “Schwarzer, please assist Mr. Schuze.”
Even though I know almost no German, I winced at that word. But the black guy seemed completely unruffled. He relieved me of the wheel then followed me out to the Bronco and lifted the heavy slab roller with one hand and the even heavier kiln with the other. I followed along behind him carrying the extension cord for the kiln.
“Anything else I can help you with?” he asked. He was unshaven, and dreadlocks flopped from his head in random directions.
I looked around and saw that Kuchen had moved to some other area of the restaurant. “I don’t want to stir up trouble,” I said, “but do you know what Schwarzer means?”
The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier Page 2
