The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (9 page)

And sautéing the bacon is just the beginning. Even small things like the parsley must be attended to with care. Chop it too soon and the oils escape. Chop it immediately before dropping it in the broth and it can add bitterness.

When I sipped the first spoonful of broth around the dumplings, I knew what Helen meant by gahm. It was not merely a liquid with great flavor. It was a spoonful of pure flavor. The chicken, bacon, onions, and other flavors had coalesced into a new and wonderful thing.

When Helen stood up, there was spontaneous applause.

She bowed and sat down without saying a word.

I thought about the breakfast casserole Miss Gladys had brought me on Sunday. It, too, started with stale bread. I pictured Ms. Helen Mure and Miss Gladys Claiborne going head-to-head at the Pillsbury Bake-off and chuckled. Then I wondered if Helen Mure had gone head-to-head with Barry Stiles. They were both hot-tempered.  Not much to go on, but enough to put her on my suspect list.

22

I called Rafael Pacheco after lunch and told him about Barry’s death. I urged him to come up and meet Molinero and Kuchen because they needed to make an emergency hire before the Grand Opening on Monday. He promised to be there at nine the next morning.

For dinner that night, Kuchen announced Buergenlandische Gaenseleber prepared by Alain Billot with a special sauce by Maria Salazar. I turned to Scruggs. “Goose liver and onions,” he said. I left the table.

Two hours later Maria entered my work area.

“Slaving over a hot kiln?”

She didn’t look like someone who would seduce Kuchen to get promoted. She was pretty enough to seduce anyone, but she looked too fresh and wholesome to do so. Like one of the Von Trapp daughters all grown up, but that was probably just because I had been working on edelweiss designs. Or is the plural edelweissen? Edelweißes?

“I’ll get you a chair,” I offered.

“Don’t bother,” she said and plopped down on the floor. She crossed her ankles in front of her, holding them in her hands, knees sticking out to the side like a little girl. She blew a few strands of hair off her face. She smiled at me. “Why did you skip dinner?”

“I don’t like liver.”

“It was goose liver. Have you ever tasted it?”

“No.”

“Well, don’t think of the awful liver and onions your mother made you eat.”

“My mother never made me eat anything.”

“You must have been a spoiled child,” she said breezily.

“Terribly,” I said.

“I’m going to bring you some food,” she said and popped up like a Jill-in-the-box before I could protest.

She returned ten minutes later with a sandwich of sliced goose liver dressed with a dark sauce between two slices of crusty bread. I feared the liver would deliver the coup de grâce to my système digestif, but food was exactly what my tummy needed in order to attack something other than itself.

The creamy liver and crunchy bread were a delicious combination. The dark sauce would have made a bicycle tire delicious. Maria was right – this was nothing like the dreaded calf’s liver.

“What’s in this sauce?”

“A saucier never tells,” she said with a look on her face that indicated maybe she did.

“Speaking of sauciers, I hear you may be in line for a promotion to chef de partie.”

A frown passed over her face, and I noted she was just as attractive frowning as she was smiling.

“That wouldn’t be a promotion in my mind. I love sauces, and I don’t want to stand over a stove and under a salamander for hours on end. Where did you hear this?”

“A potter never tells,” I said.

“Touché. O.K., I’ll tell you what’s in the sauce and you tell me who said I might become a chef de partie.” It had the flirty tone one might associate with “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

I didn’t want to tell her for fear of causing friction among the staff. There was too much of that already. But she started explaining the sauce, and I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt because she was so exuberant. Also, I wanted to know what was in it.

She recited the ingredients - shallots, honey, verjus, and veal stock. Oops. Can’t serve that to Susannah. Maybe a good chicken stock would work. Then she said, “O.K., your turn. Who told you I might become a chef de partie?”

What to do? I hadn’t twisted Helen Mure’s arm to make her talk, and she hadn’t sworn me to secrecy. There was nothing to prevent me from telling Maria the truth.

I told her half of it – that Mure had mentioned it as a possibility. I didn’t tell her Mure’s opinion of how Maria was likely to “earn” the promotion.

 She was surprised by the news but didn’t seem angry. “I wonder why she would say that?”

The question wasn’t directed to me so I didn’t answer it.

“Let’s make a game of this,” she suggested. “I’ll tell you why I think she said it, and then you tell me if it makes sense.”

I didn’t like where this was going. “I wouldn’t have any way of knowing if it makes sense. I’m just an interloper.”

“No, she told you for a reason. And you’ll know my theory makes sense if it fits with the way she told you – the words she used, the tone of her voice.”

“I don’t think—”

“But first I have to swear you to secrecy,” she said with mock seriousness.

“Why? You’re not telling me a secret, just a theory.”

“When you hear it, you’ll know why. Promise not to tell?”

She was irresistible. I crossed my heart, sealed my lips and threw away the key.

“I think she wants me to be a chef de partie so that we have to work side by side. She likes me.”

Her theory made no sense at all. Not only did Mure not like Salazar, she seemed to despise her.

“That’s a surprising theory,” I said.

“That’s because you don’t know how I know she likes me. That’s the secret part.” She paused for effect then announced, “She’s been hitting on me ever since I arrived.”

I guess I looked dumbfounded because after a few seconds of silence she said, “You’re surprised, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Somehow I got the impression you liked Kuchen.”

She furrowed her brow. “I can’t imagine any woman falling for someone that conceited and domineering.”

Despite her girlish demeanor, she looked up close to be in her mid thirties. Her black hair reached just above her shoulders and then turned up and inward. I suppose getting it to stay that way involved the use of a spray or curlers or a permanent or one of those processes I know nothing about, but it looked free and loose and not stiff at all.

I was drawn to her, and that made me nervous. She didn’t seem the type to commit a murder, but what if she and Barry had a stormy romance? Susannah tells me that love and money are the only motives for murder.

23

It snowed overnight, but Rafael was at the door of Schnitzel when I arrived shortly before nine.

He was huddled against the door blowing on his hands to keep them warm. “Neither rain nor cold nor dark of night,” he said as I unlocked the door.

The only other person early to work was M’Lanta Scruggs. “I brewed fresh coffee,” he said.

“Great,” I said and started towards the kitchen.

“I’ll bring it to you,” he said, stepping into my path. “How you like it?”

“Cream and sugar,” said Rafael.

“Black,” I said.

“Like your girlfriend,” he said.

Rafael and I went to my work area.

“What was that about?”

“He was giving me a hard time about not knowing any blacks, so I told him I’d dated a black girl.”

“I can see that broke the ice.”

I liked this guy. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting out in the cold.”

“I was early. And it gave me time to figure out whether a battering ram or a catapult would be the best way to get in.”

“It is an imposing entry,” I agreed.

“You almost expect armed guards and customs agents waiting to stamp your passport.”

I showed him my charger design. He said it was great for an Austrian restaurant, but why would we have one in New Mexico?

“At least they have cold dishes other than guacamole and salsa,” I pointed out.

“How about warm dishes?”

“There’s Liptauer.”

“What’s her first name?”

“Huh?”

He laughed. “I meant warm dishes on the staff, not on the menu.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me about Liptauer.”

“It’s a cheese dip.”

“And I thought Austrian food would take me away from all that. Is it made by Frito Lay?”

“It tastes like it might be, but don’t say that to Kuchen. It has quark, capers, and paprika.”

“Isn’t quark a subatomic particle?”

“I think it’s cream cheese in this case. If Kuchen asks you about it, be sure to say that draining the capers is important to avoid a vinegar taste. Also, the paprika should be subtle, not overpowering.”

“Who knew? How did you learn all this?”

“Barry served it, and I listened to Kuchen berate him.”

Scruggs came in with our coffee.

Rafael asked, “Are you the barista?”

“No. I’m the pot scrubber.”

Rafael took a sip. “You deserve a promotion.”

“Why you think anything from pot scrubber is a promotion?” he challenged.

After he walked away, Rafael turned to me. “Sensitive type, isn’t he?”

“So I’ve discovered. And he’s the most normal guy here.”

He held his cup up in a mock salute. “Here’s to la vida loca.” He had a sort of cheeky humor I appreciated, but I was beginning to fear he might have an unsavory side.

Raoul Deschutes came in and said, “Sorry, I didn’t know you had a guest.”

“Yes, someone who wants to meet you.” I introduced them and explained that Rafael was interested in the garde manger position.

Raoul’ face darkened.

Rafael said quickly, “Hubie told me about the position before Barry Stiles died. He thought the position might come open because Chef Kuchen seemed displeased with Barry. I was interested, but of course I never would have approached Kuchen while Barry was still here. Barry and I worked together at Café Alsace. Even if we hadn’t, you don’t undermine another worker even in our cutthroat business.”

“Oui, it is cutthroat, and the biggest cutter of throats is Kuchen himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed Stiles.”

I wondered briefly if he said that to throw suspicion away from himself. Of course there was no reason to suspect Deschutes. In fact, there was no good reason to suspect anyone. For all I knew, Barry choked to death on a schnitzel.

Rafael and I glanced at each other.

“I want the position, but it feels ghoulish to apply the day after the guy who had it died.”

Deschutes demonstrated the Gallic shrug. “Life goes on. As does the business of cooking. We need to open so the pay will begin.”

“But you’re all getting stipends, right?” ask Rafael.

“Yes, but paid in arrears.”

Rafael and Raoul chatted about their work experience. Raoul seemed happy to give a quick tutorial, although it was clear he didn’t think Austrian food was haute cuisine. As other people trickled in, I introduced them to Pacheco. I stood around during those brief chats until we got to Kuchen.

I left them alone and returned to my space where I applied the slip glazes and put the plate in the kiln. Watching a plate fire is no more riveting than watching one dry. I went for a walk. As I left the building, I saw Rafael and a woman who looked like Vivien Leigh leaning in close to him near the empty bar, radiant smiles on both their faces.

24

I returned to my workspace to find it a considerably more pleasant sight than it had been when I left.

Not because someone had cleaned it. Scarlett O’Hara was standing in the middle of it.

“Wallace Voile,” she said and extended her hand. She allowed me to hold it briefly. “I understand everyone was asked to speak with you about the chargers.”

She had a low voice and perfect diction. Her skirt hugged perfect hips without being tight enough to be tacky. A white blouse was tucked in so perfectly as to appear sewn to the skirt.

“I’d like to talk with you about the chargers, but it’s too late. The prototype is in that kiln.”

“Bad timing on my part,” she said with a practiced smile. “I’ve never been involved in any sort of design for the restaurants where I worked, so I was rather looking forward to it.”

“I understand one of the places you worked was Café Alsace.”

Her lips formed a curious smile. “How did you know that?”

“Rafael Pacheco told me.”

“Yes, he was our garde manger,” she said in a voice that gave away nothing about her opinion of Rafael.

“He’s interviewing here to replace Barry Stiles,” I said.

“I’m sure Barry’s death has been a shock to us all,” she said, making no reply to my comment about Rafael’s interview. If she were shocked by Barry’s death, she had not allowed that emotion to affect her mellifluous voice. Nor her eyes, which also reflected no shock. Nor sadness. Nor any other emotion.

“I know I was shocked,” I said.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Schuze.” She allowed me to hold her hand again and glided away.

I thought of her and Rafael together in the bar. He had the nickname, but she had the persona. Was it also the persona of a murderer?

25

The Santa Fe Police Department released my Bronco. Scruggs carried the kiln and roller to the Bronco. Rafael and I managed the wheel this time in addition to the extension cord.

I packed the glazing materials in several wooden produce boxes scavenged from the dumpster by the loading dock. I cleaned the shelves and rolled them to the storage room. I folded the tarps and placed them on the shelves.

On my way back from the storage room, I took a last look into my work area to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything and was surprised to see Machlin Masoot with a bewildered look on his face.

He smiled when he saw me. “Wallace Voile said I am too late to help you with the design.”

He was holding a tray. “I have brought a gift of appeasement.”

It was a Linzer torte, the first dish at Schnitzel I could pronounce. The French Café in La Fonda bakes them. You can even find them at the bakery in the Smith’s Grocery on Yale Boulevard near Tristan’s apartment. They look like an ordinary fruit pie with the typical latticework crust, so I had never bothered to try one.