The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier

by J. Michael Orenduff

  Stiles threw his toque on the table and stalked out of the room. Kuchen smiled. “Evidently, he lacks also the proper temperament. We will cease the training early today. Rest well. Tomorrow will be another demanding day.”

  “Tomorrow is the Sabbath,” said Scruggs.

  “Then I advise you to think of the scullery as your temple.”

  I had no intention of working the next day. I was anxious to get back to Old Town since Susannah had agreed to meet me at Dos Hermanas even though it was a Saturday and she had a date with Ice that evening.

  Unfortunately, Stiles caught me just as I was leaving. He was a high-strung kid with brown hair and hazel eyes.

  There was fire in those eyes. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  “I’m in a bit of a hur—”

  “I’ve got the perfect symbol for your plate – a swastika!”

  “I’m sorry Kuchen spoke to you like that, but it really reflects on him, not you.”

  “He wasn’t made to look the fool in front of everyone.”

  “Neither were you,” I said, trying to calm him down. He was on the verge of an emotional meltdown. “Kuchen was the one who was rude and obnoxious. You showed great restraint in not replying.”

  “I’ll reply all right. I’ll get the bastard fired.”

  I didn’t think the garde manger could get the chef de cuisine fired, and even trying seemed like a bad idea. “Don’t do anything rash.”

  “I can do it,” he said. “I know something no one else here knows.”

  He gave me a fiendish smile and stomped out.

  12

  Susannah’s brown eyes were even larger than normal. “M’Lanta? No wonder he’s a pot scrubber.”

  “Some people might call that a racist remark,” I noted.

  “It has nothing to do with race, Hubie. It has to do with names. You know any important and successful people named D’onoriffe or Shaquillian?”

  “How about Barack?”

  “That’s different. Barack is a traditional Kenyan name. And his father was an immigrant, so it’s not surprising he used a name from his home country. It’s like my grandfather. His first name was Gutxiarkaitz, but—”

  “Huh?”

  “It means ‘little rock’ in Basque.”

  “How do you spell it?”

  “Just like it sounds. But the point is he named my father Frank because he wanted him to have a traditional name.”

  “The Obama girls are Sasha and Malia. Are those traditional names?”

  “Sure. Sasha is the Slavic version of Alexandra, and Malia is the Hawaiian version of Maria. But the important thing is they aren’t made-up names with no history.”

  “Why do you know so much about names?”

  “Because my mother has a baby name book and discusses it with me every time I go home. Just after she shows me the catalog of wedding dresses,” she said despondently.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not like I’m not trying. I’d love to get married and have children, but I can’t seem to find the right man.”

  I took a bite of a crispy chip with snappy salsa.

  “What about you, Hubie?”

  “I can’t find the right man either, although Chris was definitely interested.”

  She threw a chip at me, but I managed to dodge it. Chris was the guy she had been interested in until he made a pass at me.

  I washed the snack down with the last of my margarita before musing, “I wonder if I’m marriage material. After all of these years living alone…” I didn’t finish the sentence because I didn’t know what to say.

  “Can I get you two a refill?” asked Angie.

  I did know what to say to that. I looked up at Angie’s bright smile and said, “Absolutely.” Then I said to Susannah, “I don’t know if I can survive for weeks away from this place. I almost didn’t make it through one day.”

  “You didn’t tell me what you did.”

  “I spent most of my time conversing with the misfits on the staff trying to find inspiration.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m inspired not to work in a restaurant.” I wish I hadn’t said it. It may have jinxed me.

  After Angie brought our drinks, Susannah said, “I’d like to hear about the misfits at Schnitzel. I love restaurant gossip.”

  “Well, it starts at the top. I get the impression no one respects Molinero because he’s not a food guy.”

  “It’s always like that, Hubie. It’s that ‘resent the people you need’ thing. Every restaurant needs a Molinero, the money guy. Like producers for films. Director and actors don’t like producers because they aren’t artists, but you couldn’t do a movie without a producer.”

  “Why couldn’t Kuchen start the restaurant?”

  “He probably doesn’t have the money it would take. We’re talking millions for a place like Schnitzel. And even if he did have it, he wouldn’t be crazy enough to risk it in a business that’s likely to fail.”

  “So he has to find a rich guy like Molinero who is crazy enough to do that?”

  “No. Molinero doesn’t put up the money himself. He puts together a syndicate of investors.”

  “How do you find investors for a business that’s likely to fail?”

  She shrugged. “People invest in films because they like to think they’re in show business. Maybe some people think owning a restaurant is glamorous.”

  “I’d like to own Dos Hermanas, but not for the glamour. I’d just sit here all day and sip margaritas.”

  “No you wouldn’t. What you’d do is work your butt off.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that. Kuchen is a real slave driver. Everyone hates him.”

  Susannah looked over my shoulder. “Ice is here.”

  For a moment I thought Angie had brought more cubes for our drinks.

  He was a tall guy with close-cropped hair and a somewhat blocky nose, but handsome in an odd way. He approached at a relaxed pace and said, “You must be Hubie.”

  I acknowledged as much and we shook hands.

  Susannah said, “Hubie was just telling me that everyone at Schnitzel seems to hate the Chef de cuisine.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said, looking at me as he sat down. “Head chefs are notoriously unpopular with their staffs. Most of them have enormous egos and function like dictators.”

  Susannah said, “That’s because they’re men. It’s beginning to change thanks to more women being in top positions.”

  “Women can’t have enormous egos and function like dictators?” I asked.

  “Name one.”

  “Marie Antoinette, Leona Helmsley, Joan Crawford, Imelda Marcos – want me to go on?”

  Ice laughed.

  Susannah said, “None of those are chefs, Hubie. Are there any women working at Schnitzel?”

  “The chef de partie is a woman named Helen Mure. I haven’t met her yet, but judging from her countenance, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has an enormous ego and functions like a dictator.”

  “There must be other line chefs,” Ice said.

  “Only one other so far. He’s a sad case. He came from a wealthy family and went to cooking school because he thought it would be a nice hobby.”

  “Which school?” asked Susannah.

  “Cordon Bleu in Paris.”

  “That’s not a ‘cooking school’. That’s l’école culinaire.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably what he called it when he was there on a lark. But when he had to get a job in the real world, it was just a cooking school.”

  “Why would a rich guy need a job?” she asked.

  “His father frittered away the family fortune. Then when Mansfield went to work for a new place here in Albuquerque, he didn’t get paid.”

  “Mansfield?” asked Ice. “Arliss Mansfield?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah. I was the garde manger at Café Alsace, and he was one of the line chefs. Of course I didn’t get to kno
w him well because the place closed not long after it opened.”

  “Which eventually led Ice to La Placita,” Susannah said with a silly smile on her face.

  I asked Rafael how he liked working at La Placita. I had decided I wasn’t going to call anyone ‘Ice’.

  “A Mexican food restaurant isn’t a great place for a garde manger,” he answered. “You don’t have the variety of cold appetizers served in a continental restaurant.” He smiled and stuck a chip in the salsa. “I mean, what kind of a career is it making salsa and guacamole every day?”

  I kind of liked the guy in spite of his nickname. “Maybe you should become the garde manger at Schnitzel,” I said.

  “Are they looking for one?”

  “No, but I suspect they will be soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Kuchen just humiliated the current guy, Barry Stiles.”

  “I know him, too. He was the aboyeur at Alsace.”

  Aboyeur, garde manger, chef de partie, saucier. I suspected Escoffier was responsible for restaurant people speaking in tongues.

  “What’s an Aboyeur?” I asked.

  “Basically a messenger. He takes the orders from the wait staff and relays them to the appropriate station. Sometimes he’ll do a few minors tasks like chopping or taking things out of an oven. I’m not surprised Barry isn’t a good garde manger. He wasn’t even a good Aboyeur.” He hesitated for a moment in thought. “Arliss and Barry. Hard to believe. I wonder how many other refugees from Café Alsace are at Schnitzel. Some of the names I remember are Terry Schroeder, a line cook; Jim Miller, the manager; Armando Dominguez, the grill master; Hank Schneider, the baker; and Wallace Voile.”

  “The only name I recognize from the list Molinero gave me is Wallace Voile,” I said. “He’s the maitre‘d, but I haven’t met him yet.”

  Rafael smiled and gave me a pat on the shoulder. “The reason you haven’t met him yet is he’s a she. And her title would be maitresse‘d.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you used English words?”

  “Actually, Spanish would be even better. Almost all the kitchen staff are Hispanic these days and many of them don’t speak English. I guess that lets you out of KP, Hubie.”

  “He speaks fluent Spanish,” Susannah said.

  So of course Rafael had to switch to Spanish, and after a few sentences between us, Susannah raised her hand in protest to change both the language and the subject. “A woman named Wallace. I love the story of Wallace Simpson. It’s my favorite romance.”

  “This Wallace could also induce a king to relinquish his crown,” said Rafael with a leer. “She is stunningly beautiful.”

  I could tell Susannah was fighting back a frown.

  I didn’t want to mention Barry’s remark to me that he would get revenge on Kuchen by getting him fired. I also failed to bring up Arliss saying “I work with knifes” after Kuchen scolded him. Wallace might be a beauty for all I knew, but even with that enticement, I couldn’t very well expect Rafael to want the garde manger position at Schnitzel if he thought the staff might be homicidal.

  And I did want him to have it, although I can’t imagine why; I hardly knew the guy.

  13

  I awoke Sunday morning happy to be in my own bed and thinking about Dolly whom I hoped would be sharing it with me that evening.

  Then I thought about les misérables working at Schnitzel that day. My association with an haute cuisine restaurant had me using the few French phrases I knew even though I wasn’t trying to do so.

  My mind eventually turned to breakfast. My tradition is to eat on Sunday mornings the sort of breakfast I cannot eat every day without damage to my waistline. 150 pounds is not exactly svelte on a 5’ 6” frame, but I manage to maintain both my weight and my 32 inch waist by walking almost everywhere I go and by enjoying chorizo breakfast tacos only once a week.

  I slice the skins of the little devils and squeeze the contents into a frying pan over a medium flame. As the sausage begins to heat, it releases a fragrant orange liquid – pork fat and spices, no doubt – but I like to think of it as flavored cooking oil. Perfect for scrambling the eggs. Then throw in some jalapeños, diced potatoes and onions and stir until the ingredients have become close and warm friends. Put the mixture between folded tacos, garnish with fresh cilantro, and you have breakfast fit for a rey.

  And a lot better than Gebratener Leberkäse.

  Which started me thinking about the whole idea of haute cuisine. Coquille Saint-Jacques sounds like haute cuisine, but it’s just scallops and mushrooms in a cream sauce. If the scallops are rubbery and the cream sauce gummy, it’s awful. Calling it Coquille Saint-Jacques can’t disguise the taste.

  Breakfast tacos sound like something you’d get from a drive-thru or a sidewalk cart, but when they’re prepared properly with fresh ingredients, they are just as delicious as Coquille Saint-Jacques. Even moreso in Albuquerque because you can’t get fresh scallops here.

  Unfortunately, my meditation on food delayed my cooking so that when Miss Gladys showed up with one of her infamous casseroles, I couldn’t use the ‘I just ate’ excuse.

  “I swear people will think I’m a heathen, Hubert, but I just don’t enjoy church like I did when Guy was alive. Of course I still go to most of the Wednesday covered-dish suppers. Do you think that counts?”

  “Some people get worked up debating whether you should go on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. My guess is God doesn’t care what day you choose.”

  Her pale blue eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Marsha Wilkes would take issue with you on that. She was one of those Seventh Day Adventists, but she surely could cook. This is her famous breakfast casserole.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She made it with meat made out of soybeans. Can you believe that?”

  Gladys Claiborne runs a gift shop two doors west of me in the same building. She and her shop are as much a part of Old Town as the Gazebo and the Church even though she’s a Texan. Her husband left her well-off when he died, and I think the shop is more a hobby than a source of income. Which allows her to spend more time cooking than selling embroidered tea cozies and crocheted chili peppers.

  Gladys views me as a man who doesn’t have a wife to cook for him, so I’m a frequent recipient of her chaffing dish largesse. Many of Gladys’ dishes are named after women she knew in East Texas who either invented or frequently served them.

  This one started with stale bread. The bread was covered with crumbled cooked sausage – the real stuff – and a layer of shredded cheddar. Eggs and cream were mixed together and poured over the mixture. Refrigerate overnight and bake in the morning.

  It was relatively healthy by Miss Gladys’ standards, having no canned soups with their high salt content. And it was ‘toothsome’ as she might say. I found myself thinking that substituting chorizo for the Jimmy Dean and replacing the cheese with chile verde might make a great dish because I could prepare it in advance.

  Being around Miss Gladys tends to disorient me.

  14

  “Do you think my boobs are too big?”

  It was a question that had never before been put to me. Dolly is a somewhat plump woman, and all her body parts share a common scale. Her breasts would probably look too large on the typical Asian woman and too small on the typical Amazon. I didn’t think that was the answer she was fishing for, so I said, “I think everything about you is just right.”

  She leaned over and kissed me. I took that to mean my answer was good. I was in my bed in post-conjugal bliss. Dolly was putting on her clothes. I like her birthday suit and hated to see her cover it up, but it is probably not the appropriate outfit for driving an automobile.

  Her best feature is not her breasts, which may be a tad too large, but who’s complaining? Her best feature is her remarkable skin, an amazing elastic expanse completely free of freckles, wrinkles, blemishes and scars. If you took a picture of Dolly naked in a big crib and had nothing to indicate the scale, you might think she was a newborn
so smooth is her skin. Of course if she were on her back, the boobs would probably give it away.

  After watching her dress, I forced myself to do the same.

  “Would you like anything before you go?”

  “How about a little Gruet?” she suggested.

  An excellent suggestion it was.

  Gruet offers a Grande Reserve, a Grand Rose, a Blanc de Blancs, an Extra Dry, a Brut, a Demi Sec, a Sauvage and a Blanc de Noirs. They are all excellent. But I sometimes worry that they may be offering too many varieties and will run short of grapes to make enough Blanc de Noir, the house champagne at Café Schuze.

  The December 31st issue of the Albuquerque Journal carries a list of the most important events of the year. In 1983, that list included the election of Margaret Thatcher, one of those women who defy Susannah’s stereotype of women not being dictatorial.

  But in my view, the most important event in 1983 was a family vacation – the Gruet family of Bethon, France came to New Mexico.

  I assume they enjoyed their holidays; most visitors to the Land of Enchantment do. But in addition to vacation events, they also discovered inexpensive high-altitude land with sandy soil where the temperature at night drops over thirty degrees, perfect for cooling the grapes and slowing their maturation process. Perfect for making champagne.

  The vineyards are located along what the conquistadores called the Jornada del Muerto, which you can probably translate even if you don’t speak Spanish. It was a ninety-mile stretch of the Camino Real feared by early Spanish travelers because of the lack of water. Draft animals and people often died of thirst. Others were killed by Apaches.

  Today you can drive to the area in an air-conditioned car on a paved road that leads to Ted Turner’s Armendaris Ranch where you can see grazing buffalo, antelope, and oryx. I don’t know if people eat oryx... oryxes? oryxi? But it is a handy word if you like crossword puzzles.

  We took our champagne in my patio. Geronimo was with Martin, so we didn’t have to worry about him trying to lick the flutes. He loves Gruet as much as I do.