The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (13 page)

“He didn’t say, but it makes more sense than anything the two of us have come up with. Barry told me he was going to get revenge on Kuchen by getting him fired. Maybe Kuchen knew that and decided to kill Barry before it happened.”

“How could Barry get Kuchen fired?”

“I have no idea. All I know is he said to me, ‘I know something no one else here knows’.”

Susannah was now fully immersed in her Girl Detective mode. She’s told me many times how much she enjoyed reading the Nancy Drew books when she was of that age. I’ve also read that Sonia Sotomayor, Hillary Clinton, and Laura Bush cited them as formative influences. If there’s a common denominator among those four women, I can’t find it.

“Since Schnitzel is so new,” she said, “it must be something about Kuchen’s past. Barry and he must have crossed paths at a previous restaurant. Maybe Café Alsace?”

“No, Kuchen wasn’t at Alsace because when I introduced Rafael to him, it was clear they had never met.”

“You got a pad and pencil?” asked Martin. “I think I need a score card to keep up with this.”

Susannah asked, “You know where Kuchen’s last job was?”

“I got the impression he came straight from Europe. Maybe he worked at Le Petit Moulin Rouge.” The name of the place had stuck in my mind.

She gave me a strange look. “The place where Toulouse-Lautrec hung out?”

“I don’t know. Evidently, it’s a famous restaurant in Paris. Or used to be. Escoffier worked there.”

“When did Escoffier live?”

“1846 to 1935.”

“Toulouse-Lautrec was commissioned to do posters for Moulin Rouge in 1889, so they might have overlapped.” When she’s not waiting tables at La Placita, Susannah studies art history as a part-time night student at the University of New Mexico.

“Did you ever see the movie Moulin Rouge?” I asked her.

“Sure. And I watched it again when I took up art history. They didn’t have computer animation back then so they had to use clever staging and camera angles to make José Ferrer look like he was four foot six.”

“I remember Zsa Zsa Gabor played the model.”

“She was actually a dancer at Moulin Rouge,” said Susannah.

“I know she’s real old,” I said, “but I don’t think Zsa Zsa Gabor was alive in 1889.”

“Of course not. The dancer was named Jane Avril. When they hired Lautrec to make posters for the business, he selected Avril as his model. Why are we talking about this?”

“Because you asked me where Kuchen last worked, and I said maybe at Le Petit Moulin Rouge.”

“Oh, right. I don’t think they’re the same place. You said Le Petit Moulin Rouge was a famous restaurant. Moulin Rouge was mainly a bar and dance hall. From what you’ve told me about Escoffier, I don’t think he would have worked there.”

“I’m glad we got that cleared up,” quipped Martin. “You got any more beer?”

We were all ready for a second one, so I pulled three from the fridge.

“The guacamole is all gone,” observed Martin.

“We still have chips.”

“You want us to eat plain chips?” asked Susannah.

“Why is it I have to provide the food every time we get together?”

Susannah said, “I could provide some pintxos next time.”

“Which are?”

“Bar food. One of my favorites is txipirones.”

“How do you spell that,” I said because I knew she wanted me to.

She smiled. “Just like it sounds.”

“And what is it?” asked Martin

“Squid cooked in its own ink.”

Martin looked at me. “You try it first, paleface.”

“What will you bring?” I asked him.

“Pih-n,” he said.

“Which is?”

“Gopher.”

“I’ll make some salsa,” I said.

32

I spent five hours making mole after Susannah and Martin left.

Despite the spelling, it is unrelated to the gopher.

I placed the gigantic pot from Schnitzel on my stove where it covered both burners. I began filling it with ingredients. Most of them had to be processed in some way before being tossed into the mix, which accounts for the five hours.

The sesame seeds, dried ancho chiles, almonds, anise seeds, cominos, and pepitas had to be dry-roasted in a frying pan in separate batches, shaking the pan constantly as if making popcorn. The tomatillos and garlic had to be chopped. The Mexican canela, black pepper and fresh cloves had to be ground. The Mexican chocolate needed to be roughly chopped.

A few pieces of the chocolate didn’t make it into the pot.

The bread had to be toasted. The chicken broth had to be made from scratch. Only the corn oil and my secret substitute ingredient – black cherries instead of raisins – went into the pot without being processed.

After the brew was simmering, I popped the cork on a bottle of Gruet which I told myself I had earned by hard labor. Ella Fitzgerald was singing Baby It’s Cold Outside, and the scent from the mole had my taste buds doing a slow rumba. Only my iron will and the cold Gruet kept me from eating some of the mole before it was completely done. About halfway to that point, I dropped in five dozen chicken legs.

I never cook in large batches, so I had no idea how long it would take. I fished out one of the legs after a while, put it on my cutting board and pressed it. From the way it sprung back, I thought it might be done. I cut into it. It was.

I didn’t want to put it back in the pot after handling it and cutting into it. That was the excuse I gave myself for eating it. Then I had to test several more.

The ones I didn’t eat went onto the cookie sheets. I covered them with foil and slid them into the fridge.

As an experiment, I mixed Geronimo’s dry dog food with some mole. He liked it.

33

Molinero had generously allowed me to keep my room at La Fonda until the plates were finished. I thought the least I could do was be there to help with the Grand Opening.

They pressed me into service as a garçon de cuisine.

Also known as a kitchen boy.

I didn’t mind; they needed the help.

I showed up at ten thinking I was absurdly early only to find the kitchen in tumult. Masoot was baking bread, Scruggs’ assistants were hauling pots and pans to the scullery the moment they were emptied, Mansfield was filling various plastic containers on a shelf over his station, Mure was frenching racks of lamb, Salazar had various sauces in process, and Billot was trussing up some chickens.

“Regarde,” he said when he saw me watching, “They are all tied up with a knot.”

I smiled. “The expression is ‘tied up with a bow’.”

“Ah. Well, I have used the knot.”

Luckily for the chickens, they were dead – being tied in that position looked very uncomfortable.

Rafael was making pâté and Raoul was removing filets from a large fish and putting what was left in a pot to make fish stock. Jürgen was carving a large piece of beef into pieces that would become tafelspitz, which is as unappetizing as the name would suggest.

Kuchen was going from station to station making comments and issuing orders.

When I said I was willing to help, they didn’t hesitate to accept. Despite the weeks of preparation, many things had been overlooked. No one had thought to start storing ice, so all they had was what the machine held. They sent me on an ice run. I filled the back of the Bronco and Scruggs helped me carry the bags to the freezer when I returned.

I folded napkins and filled salt shakers.

Among all the ranks of the brigade de cuisine mentioned in Escoffier’s book, the only one missing was the communard, the person who prepares meals for the staff. I had intended for my chicken mole to be merely a treat and a thank-you for the staff on their big day, but Alain made a pot of rice to go with it, and it became the staff lunch. There was no time for one of the group lunches we had during training and no place either since the dining room was now fully dressed in its finest linen and silver. People took a leg and some rice and ate standing up or moving.

I worked like a dog all afternoon until five when they told me to stand aside because they had a routine for the hour before opening.

Wallace Voile had a cadre of lithe young women serving as hostesses and waitresses, and she was giving them last minute instructions. Her crew were dressed in black skirts and simple white blouses with red ascots. Wallace wore a silver-sequined dress that clung to her contours, starting from her neck, flaring slightly at the knees, continuing down to the floor and trailing her as she walked. Rafael walked up to me and said, “Wow! Get a load of that body.”

“That dress makes her look like a mermaid,” I said.

“Yeah. Thirty-six, twenty four, carp.”

Kuchen came out in a freshly washed and pressed tunic. The tables were set, the lights were lowered. The castle gates were thrown open.

The obvious chaos of the last eight hours gave way to casual competence in the dining room. In the kitchen, pandemonium continued to reign, but it was a controlled hubbub. Backstage at an opera, the costumes and sets so obviously counterfeit, the faces of the singers painted on. Yet the audience sees only glorious spectacle.

Food was dropped, plates broken, curses uttered, but when the swinging door opened and the waiters arrived with the dishes, it seemed effortless to the diners.

The tables were packed all night. Wine flowed, coffers filled. When the door was locked behind the last patron, champagne was uncorked – not Gruet, alas – and toasts were made. To Kuchen, to Molinero, to the staff, to Santa Fe, to food and to success, which seemed to me the most appropriate toast of all because that is what the Grand Opening had been – an overwhelming success.

I walked back to La Fonda. When I entered the lobby, I was surprised a round of applause did not break out. I felt the whole world must surely know about Schnitzel, and I was proud to be a part of it.

34

The euphoria evaporated over morning coffee at the French Café.

The headline on the review by Dagmar Mortensen, the restaurant critic for the state’s major paper read, “A Herr in my Soup.” The text was about what you would expect given the headline.

Many of us were looking forward to a new cuisine in town. After all, Austrian restaurants are as rare in New Mexico as a rainy day. After dining at Schnitzel last night, I now understand why. I admit to being impressed upon arrival. The entry looks like Mad King Ludwig’s Bavarian Castle. The maitresse’d was welcoming and lovely in her shimmering dress. Our table setting was impressive. Indeed, everything went well until the food arrived.

I started with the coachman’s salad, constructed from bologna, hard-boiled eggs, cucumber, and onions sliced in Cobb salad style. The dressing was a fatty mayonnaise concoction. The bologna, onion, and mayo created a taste you would expect from a county fair kiosk sponsored by Oscar Meyer and Kraft.

The fingerling potatoes in my companion’s warm potato salad were overcooked and oily. The only things required to turn our first course into the picnic from hell would have been ants and rain.

The entrées were worse. My Gebratener Leberkäse contained two rich meats, corned beef and bacon. I don’t know which was worse, the cloying flavor or the existential angst about which part of my anatomy the fat was going to disfigure. My companion, having taken the warning shot of her salad seriously, tried to play it safe by ordering chicken strudel, something that sounds both traditionally Austrian and light by comparison to my meatloaf. Her hopes were dashed when the chicken arrived.

At least we assumed there was chicken in there. The salty ham and heavy layer of cheese hid the bird well. Just to make sure no chicken taste would peek through, sour cream had been liberally applied.

I almost decided to skip dessert, which would have been a mistake. The Salzburger Nockerln and Linzer torte were good, although not good enough to justify eating what had come before.

Judging from Schnitzel, Austrian food will not be a hit in the Land of Enchantment. It is too heavy and dark for this sunny clime. Because it relies so heavily on fat, sugar, and salt, it has a tired formulaic taste one might expect in the cafeteria of a tourist boat on the Danube. After it sank. I have decided to make Schnitzel the first restaurant I have ever awarded minus two stars.

My mood had darkened with every word. My coffee had also grown cooler with each one because I was too engrossed to drink it. I was mortified for my colleagues, especially Rafael. I had urged him to become the garde manger at Schnitzel, and now his two salads had been viciously panned in the state’s leading paper.

I picked up a daily from Albuquerque and warily turned each page the way a bomb defuser might remove sand from around a land mine. There was no mention of Schnitzel. Then I saw the second section. Above the fold in large print, I read, “Austrians probably glad Schnitzel chef immigrated.” The review began, “Historians looking for an explanation of the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire might want to start with the food.” I couldn’t read any further.

But that didn’t stop me from checking another Santa Fe paper where I found this gem of a headline – “Lederhosen tastier than meatloaf at Schnitzel.”

I decided to run away from the mess. Get in the Bronco, drive back to Albuquerque and take the phone off the hook. Then I reconsidered.

There was no reason to take the phone of the hook. No one was going to call me about Schnitzel. I was just the ‘ceramic artist’.

But even though they were an odd lot to say the least, I knew I couldn’t abandon the people at Schnitzel in what had to be the nadir of their professional careers.

Then I saw one of them walk into the café. Smiling, of all things.

“I thought I might find you here,” said Jürgen as he sat down. He eyed the table. “You have already eaten?”

“No, but I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Ach!” he scoffed. He went to the counter and purchased two almond croissants and two fresh coffees.

I sipped the hot coffee and felt a little better. I risked a bite of the croissant. It was warm, flaky, and sweet. I had another bite and some more coffee.

“You’re not depressed by the reviews?”