The Sourdough Wars (7 page)

Out of the barroom, anyway. We were in a dark passage, and, believe it or not, it was blocked by two young men necking like teenagers, kissing and feeling each other up.

“’Scuse us,” Clayton said, but they didn’t budge.

“Let us through, please,” Chris said. One man put his hand in the back of the other one’s jeans. I know some people are turned on by violence, but this was ridiculous. However, if it was violence they wanted, it was violence they were going to get: I kicked first one in the shin, then the other.

“What the hell?” said the first one, and turned toward us, fists clenched. But his friend, apparently miffed at the interruption, pulled him out of the way. “Let them through.”

And then we were really outside.

We leaned up against the side of the building, catching our breath for a moment. “Let’s get out of here,” said Clayton. “There’s gon’ be a stampede out that back door when those cops get here.”

We were barely ahead of the stampede. Cops chased the stampeders, but we simply stood aside and let them pass, figuring we’d probably be taken for tourists who’d lost their way. It seemed to work.

When we were alone, Clayton asked, “Y’all want a drink? Anywhere but this neighborhood. What kind of place is this? There goes a guy with two shades of eye shadow.”

Chris and I couldn’t help laughing—it was the universal out-of-towner’s response to Castro Street. We may have been a little rude, but a laugh at his expense was a small thing, and it made me feel better. I was upset with Clayton—he might not have meant to, but he’d started a near-riot.

We found a quiet bar in the adjoining Noe Valley, and when Chris had her bourbon and Clayton and I our white wines, I asked Clayton exactly what was going on.

He shrugged. “I guess I kind of lost control. Guy tried to mug me—you saw it.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Asked for my money, that’s all. Had his hand in his jacket like he had a gun. Scared the hell out of me. I’ve been feeling a little funny in that neighborhood anyway. Can’t think why Rick and Mary live there—with a baby, too.” Chris nodded, wise with an insider’s knowledge. “That’s probably why. It’s hard for people with children to find apartments in San Francisco.”

“Must be. That’s all I can say.”

“Listen, Clayton,” I said. “We were coming to see you because we’ve got something to tell you.” I told him about the second starter.

“Well, glory be. My comp’ny’s gon’ be mighty happy to hear about that.” He sighed. “I was gon’ take a few days off, stayin’ with my friends. But I guess it’ll have to wait awhile. What’s the legal procedure on that starter?”

“The court will appoint an administrator for the estate,” said Chris. “That is, if it turns out Peter died intestate—and I suppose his apartment’s been searched by now. If there’s no will there—or anywhere—that’s the procedure.”

“Any chance one of y’all’ll be appointed? You, Chris? You were Martinelli’s lawyer.”

She shook her head. “No. It has to be Peter’s sister, Anita Ashton. She’s his nearest relative, so she stands to inherit.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I’m afraid in a case like this—when a woman is appointed—it’s called an ‘administratrix.’ ”

“A bit archaic.” Thompson sounded distracted. “So if my comp’ny still wants a chance at that starter, I s’pose the person to approach is this Ms. Ashton.”

We nodded. “But I happened to talk with her today, and I don’t think she’ll want to sell. A private sale isn’t possible at this point, anyway—not till the estate is probated.”

“Never too soon to start thinkin’ about it, is it? I think my comp’ny’ll make her a mighty handsome offer.”

We excused ourselves, stopped at a gas station, and looked up Tony Tosi in the phone book. He lived in the Sunset, the relentlessly middle-class district south of Golden Gate Park. The houses there give the famous ticky-tacky ones of Daly City a run for their money, though they do have bay windows. Many of them have no front yards, and they butt up against each other like town houses. The area looks so barren visitors sometimes think they’ve hit the sixth borough of New York, but if you stand in the kitchen of a Sunset house and look out the window, you can see green for blocks—everyone has a long skinny backyard.

There’s not much traffic in the Sunset, not much crime, and hardly any sunsets that anyone can see. San Francisco weather varies from neighborhood to neighborhood, and some of the worst plagues the Sunset, which is sometimes known as Fogville.

The young woman who opened the Tosi door was short and blond. And bland. At least that was my unkind take on her—anybody that cute and bouncy must be bland. I really ought to reform sometime, but meeting Cathy Tosi didn’t provide much inspiration for it. On closer inspection, it turned out she was bland.

When she smiled, she showed a mouthful of perfect teeth. She had on a sort of honey-beige lambswool sweater that said, “Look at me—I’m fluffy and cute,” in case the casual observer was half-blind or something. She was remarkably similar to Sally Devereaux, but nearly ten years younger.

Cathy took our names, seemed to recognize Chris’s, and went in search of Tony, leaving us in a sort of gold brocade wonderland. The living-room curtains were gold brocade and so was the sofa and so were the chairs. The carpet was gold wool, probably of very good quality, as were the various mass-produced dark wood tables in the room. There was a bit of Steuben glass, some heavy glass vases with bubbles in them, and on one wall was a reproduction of van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
. I couldn’t tell if it had been selected to go with the gold furnishings or the other way around.

Tony came in, apparently from some TV-equipped room at the rear of the house. He wore a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, and he had a gold chain around his neck and a Rolex watch on his wrist. I was sure that if there were any way to get a plain gold chain with a manufacturer’s label on it, Tony would have done it.

I had the same feeling I’d had before—that Tony was less substantial than Bob. But I could see the outline of his body very well underneath the polo shirt, and he certainly worked out, whether Bob did or not. Maybe Bob was a trifle overweight. Or maybe it wasn’t physical at all. Maybe it was the fact that Bob always seemed at ease, Tony perennially worried.

“Hi, Chris,” he said. “Rebecca. Is anything wrong?”

“Not at all,” said Chris. “We have some good news for you.”

“Can I get you anything?” asked Cathy.

It was cocktail hour, but both Chris and I asked for coffee, hoping that would take longer, giving us an excuse to stay and make apparent small talk after we’d stated our business.

We were already on the sofa, and Tony sat down in one of the gold brocade chairs. He looked out of place there, but I suppose Chris and I did, too. It wasn’t a room you could get comfortable in.

“The starter’s been found,” said Chris.

Tony’s face said it wished we would speak English. He was quiet for a while, apparently doing a slow translation, and when he finally spoke, it wasn’t worth waiting for. He said, “Oh?”

“The cryogenics firm had another batch,” Chris continued.

Cathy reappeared with the coffee. “Cream? Sugar?” That occupied the next few minutes, and I got the idea Tony was glad for some time to think. When he spoke again, he looked like a little kid begging for a new bike but pretty sure Mom and Dad couldn’t afford it. “I know you don’t know me,” he said, “and I don’t know how to say this, but… look, I want to tell you some things.”

Chris and I nodded, wearing our most sympathetic-lawyer looks. “I want to tell you about my brother and me.” His hand shook as he put his coffee cup on the table. “Bobby’s the oldest, you know what I mean? I always looked up to him, kind of let him tell me what to do and how to do it when we were kids. I sort of got in the habit of it. So everybody in the family, they always thought Bobby was smarter and kind of more…competent.” He made a face as he said the last word, as if it had given him trouble sometime.

“I guess I thought so, too,” he continued. “I mean, I guess it was me that gave them that idea in the first place, know what I mean?” Again, we nodded. “So, anyway, Bobby was kind of the favorite and he kind of knew it, I guess. But we both went into the business—I don’t mean the baking business; I mean the family business, the Tosi Bakery.” His shoulders straightened a bit when he said, “Tosi Bakery,” as if it were his instead of his brother’s.

“We got to be damn good bakers, you know that? I mean, Bobby and me both. I’m gonna tell you something—Bobby can’t bake any better than I can.” He sighed. “It’s like when we were kids. People think he can, because he’s got the
Tosi
Bakery, you know what I mean? But he’s no better. In fact, I’m putting out a superior product right this minute.” He nodded, emphasizing the point. “You can run a taste test. Go ahead. Try Bobby’s loaf and mine, and see which is better. Guarantee you Palermo makes a better sourdough. Go ahead. Try it yourself.”

“We will,” I said, because it didn’t look as if he was going to continue until he had our word on a taste test. I presumed we couldn’t have one there and then, because there was no Tosi bread in the household.

“Know why it’s better? Because of the secret ingredient, that’s why. Look, it’s this way. My brother and me came up together. We learned to bake from the same teacher—our papa, who was the best baker in town except for old man Martinelli. So it stands to reason we’d bake the same, doesn’t it?” He looked at us anxiously.

Once again, we nodded.

“Unless,” he said, straightening up again and looking triumphant, “unless what?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Chris.

“Unless one of us improved on the old way. Know what I mean?”

There was nothing to do except nod again. My head was starting to feel like a yoyo.

“Well, I improved on it. Go ahead. Try a taste test, you’ll see.”

“You mean,” I said, “that you’ve added something to the bread that you don’t ordinarily find in sourdough?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Tony, looking mischievous and quite pleased with himself. I glanced at Cathy and saw that she looked anxious.

“But you mentioned a secret ingredient.”

“Ah. You noticed that, did you?”

Guess what I did then? Right you are—I nodded.

“The secret ingredient’s what does it. Nobody knows what it is and nobody’s gonna know—except Cathy, of course.” He patted Cathy’s knee. “But it’s the thing that makes the Palermo loaf the best. The only thing is, we aren’t the biggest.”

“Why,” asked Chris, “did you leave the Tosi Bakery?”

“I was getting to that. Like I was saying, me and my brother went into the business. And then Pop died. Mama, she didn’t know nothin’ about running the business, so her and Pop had figured out what would happen in the event of his death. It was in his will and everything—me and Bobby inherited everything, split right down the middle. Equal shares of the Tosi Bakery. Equal partners. But somebody had to be president of the corporation, and that was Bobby. So there we were grown up and Bobby was still my boss. And I had all these great ideas about how to run a bakery. I wanted to expand, build a couple of new plants, truck bread all over the state, you know? Bobby wouldn’t buy it.”

For once, Chris and I got to shake our heads.

“Bobby was so used to me being little brother and everything, he wouldn’t listen to me at all. So we fought all the time. And Mama, she was no help. She’d just say, ‘Now, Tony, you listen to your brother. Bobby’s always been the smart one.’ So pretty soon I couldn’t take it anymore, you know what I mean? I mean, I could bake as good as Bobby and I could run a business just as good. Only everybody thought I was ‘little brother’ and I couldn’t think for myself.”

“So you had to get out,” I said.

Now it was Tony’s turn to nod, and he did it emphatically. “Yeah. I had to go.”

“Bobby bought you out?”

“It wasn’t quite that simple. See, I didn’t want to go. I mean, I guess you ladies can’t understand, not being Italian or anything, but this was our family business—the
Tosi
Bakery. I couldn’t leave it, just like that—that was the last thing I wanted to do.” He sighed again. “I’m a self-made man now, you know? Even Bobby can’t say that. I’m a real high achiever. But you know what? I’d give it all up just to have the family business back.”

“I don’t understand,” said Chris. “You said you had to get out.”

“I mean I was forced out.” He held up a hand. “I’m not accusing Bobby of anything—it was all fair and square—it’s just not the choice I’d have made, that’s all.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I asked Bobby to buy me out. Of course he wouldn’t, but he really did want me to leave. I mean, somebody had to go, that was obvious, and neither of us wanted to start a new bakery. Both of us wanted that one.”

“Yes?”

“Of course, now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure I wanted that Tosi Bakery a hell of a lot more than Bobby ever did. He was already the family’s fair-haired boy and everything—he didn’t have anything to prove; I was the one who did. If he’d been the one to leave, he’d probably have done it a lot more easily than I did—I mean, he considered it a kind of pleasant challenge rather than”—he seemed at a loss for words—“than what you have to do to survive.” He paused and his voice dropped. “It’s survival to me, and it still scares the hell out of me.”

Looking at him, I could believe it. He was fidgeting with his coffee cup, and the swarthy Tosi hide looked almost pale. It was apparently very hard for him to talk about—probably even think about—these things. I figured he must be doing it for a reason and he’d get to that pretty soon. But there was still something about this part of it that I didn’t get.

“How,” I asked, “did your brother get you to leave?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly
get
me to leave. Like I said, I think he was sort of willing to be the one that left. But he won the toss.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Finally, it just got ridiculous and there didn’t seem anything else to do without a lot of dumb lawsuits. So we flipped a coin.”

I let out a whoosh of breath, but Chris was on top of the thing fast. “Let me guess,” she said. “It was Robert’s idea, right?”