The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (14 page)

He waved a hand dismissively, “If we gave the newspapers bad reviews would people stop reading them?”

“I guess not.”

“Just so. People do not stop going to restaurants that get bad reviews. Anyway, restaurant reviews are for snobs.”

Evidently I had a lot to learn. Jürgen’s words of experience and even keel made me feel better. I stopped worrying about Schnitzel.

And returned to worrying about Detective Duran.

I looked around to ascertain no one was sitting next to us. I lowered my voice. “Jürgen, are you gay?”

“Of course! You will never see me in a bad mood. Since I left home on my sixteenth birthday, I have traveled the world as what you Americans call a happy-go-lucky man.”

I cleared my throat. “That’s not what I meant. I mean are you a …”

“Homosexual?” he said when I hesitated. “Why? Do you wish to proposition me?”

“No! I’m not gay. But someone I know thinks you might be.” This was not going at all as I intended. I felt like an idiot for bringing it up.

He looked amused. “And why does this person you know speculate about me in this fashion?”

I didn’t know whether I was supposed to, but I decided to tell him about my second meeting with Duran. “Detective Duran thinks you may have killed Barry Stiles.”

He looked puzzled. “And he thinks I did this because I am gay?”

“No, he doesn’t think you’re gay. A least I don’t think he does. I’m not sure.”

“Then I do not understand.”

Neither did I, and I was the one doing the explaining. “Duran says only two people had obvious access to where the body was found, you and me. Since I didn’t really know Barry, Duran assumes I had no reason to kill him.”

“But I didn’t know him any better than you did.”

“I know. But because you are both cooks, he thinks there might be a connection.”

“He thinks cooks are gay?”

“No. I was talking to a friend about it, and she was trying to help me by figuring out how Barry was killed. So she said one possibility is that when you went to the Bronco, you called him to meet you there.”

“And I would do that because I am gay?”

“I told her it was a ridiculous idea.”

“I am not gay,” he stated matter of factly. “I have never wanted to be tied down by marriage. Perhaps I saw how much my mother needed marriage, and I didn’t want to be so dependent. I enjoy sex with women, but as Machlin said to me when we were discussing the subject, he loves bread, but he doesn’t want to own a bakery.”

Oink, I said to myself since Susannah wasn’t there to say it.

35

The bedlam at Schnitzel Tuesday night was the same as it had been at the Grand Opening, and I was again assigned a number of unskilled tasks that no one else had time to do. I removed wax drippings from candle holders, made a trip to Whole Foods for fennel bulbs, and wrote the specials on a slate board next to the maitresse‘d station.

Most places use a white board these days, but Schnitzel had real slate. Alain Billot gave me the list, and I used my best printing to list the items.

In addition to the set menu, there was to be a special appetizer, entrée, and dessert – smoked trout pâté, beuschel and Apfelstrudel respectively.

You know what Apfelstrudel is. You don’t want to know what beuschel is, but I’m going to tell you anyway – a ragout with calf lungs and heart. Yum.

I had Jürgen proofread the list because I assumed Alain was not fluent in Austrian. I say ‘Austrian’ because when I had called it German, Kuchen told me in no uncertain terms it was Austrian. There are evidently a few differences in spelling and usage as between the U.S. and England, but Kuchen took them seriously, pointing out that whereas Germans write the word for ‘foot’ as ‘fuß’, Austrians write is as ‘fuss’.

I immediately took the Austrian side of this weighty issue, having investigated the dreaded ß – called an eszett I now knew – after Susannah drew one for me when explaining about it being on the uniforms of some Nazis. I found a book in the library about scripts around the world. I had decided I didn’t like it. The eszett, that is. I liked the book fine, but didn’t mention it to Susannah for fear of the scolding she would give me for reading something which has neither practical application nor entertainment value.

I made a tour of the restaurant during the few minutes immediately before opening and no one seemed worried. Perhaps they were too busy to worry. Everything was the same as it had been the night before with the exception of Kuchen who was nowhere to be seen. Molinero was also not there. His office was dark and I assumed locked.

There was a line when the doors opened, and most of the tables had diners until eight when the crowd began to thin. The last patrons left shortly after ten, and it was after midnight when the lights were turned out and the doors locked.

I was halfway down the block when Jürgen caught up with me and suggested we hit the bar. I told him I was too tired. I also told him he was right that people would come to Schnitzel despite the bad reviews. Then, remembering that P.T. Barnum is reputed to have said, ‘Say anything you want about me as long as you spell my name right’, I said to Jürgen that perhaps the people came because of the bad reviews.

During this brief exchange, Rafael Pacheco walked by with Wallace Voile clinging to his arm. Deschutes was about twenty feet back, seemingly following them. Next came Maria Salazar and Helen Mure. Maria smiled at me as she passed by. Helen stared straight ahead.

I fell in behind the strange parade and headed to La Fonda.

36

On Wednesday morning, I put my dirty clothes behind the back seat and headed home.

And thought again about Barry Stiles.

Joseph Akerman was born in Wiltshire, England, not far from Southampton where the Titanic embarked. He joined her crew as a pantryman on April 4, 1912. I suppose a pantryman is something like a garde manger. His wages were £3 15s per month. Before I returned to school to study something of interest, I earned an accounting degree at UNM, but they didn’t teach us how to convert pounds and schillings to dollars. £3 15s doesn’t sound like much, but perhaps a hundred years ago it was a living wage. Akerman never got to find out. He died in the sinking, as did his brother, Albert, who was a steward.

Joseph and Albert Akerman were immortalized in a small way by having their pictures and obituaries published in Escoffier’s magazine. They are also on the list of the fifteen hundred people who died with them in the cold waters of the North Atlantic. I suppose most people who die are listed somewhere, but the Titanic is an A-list. People are fascinated by the story.

Dying while an employee of Schnitzel hardly ranks up there with dying as a crewmember of the Titanic, but Stiles was just as dead as Akerman. He just wouldn’t be on an A-list of the deceased. Did it matter? I didn’t think so.

These morose thoughts faded as I approached Old Town. After parking and unloading, I strolled over to the plaza. The air was crisp and the sun warm. The hodgepodge of adobe walls, wrought iron benches, and gallerias with their dried and splitting carved posts and lintels dispatched the last of my gloomy thoughts.

Live in the moment. If the moment finds you in a charmed place, all the better.

Geronimo was happy to see me. I’d had left him plenty of food and water, and he had left me a few things in the patio that I scooped up and deposited in the trash.

The luster of my simple home had faded somewhat due to my running back and forth to Santa Fe, so I spent the day doing housework and laundry. The loud bong noise activated by the opening of the front door would alert me to customers. It bonged twice but the people who triggered it did not stay long. My straightening, dusting, waxing, and washing were done by four-fifty. And even had they not been, I would have left for Dos Hermanas at any rate.

After the margaritas were served, Susannah started debriefing me about my time in Santa Fe. I was disappointed to hear she hadn’t seen the reviews because that meant the task of telling her Rafael’s salads were flamed by the critics now fell to me.

“The reviews were bad,” I said.

“How bad?”

“Very bad.”

“Very bad or very, very bad?”

“Even worse.”

“What’s worse than very, very bad?”

“How about Dagmar Mortensen saying the coachman’s salad tasted like something from a county fair kiosk sponsored by Oscar Meyer and Kraft.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What else?”

“She said her companion’s warm potato salad was overcooked and oily.”

“Anything else?” she asked through clenched jaws.

Might as well get it all out. “There was something along the lines of the only things required to turn the salad course into the picnic from hell would have been ants and rain.”

“I want her to review La Placita, Hubert.”

“Why? She delights in being negative.”

“Yeah? Well here’s a line for her – ‘My enchiladas were laced with coyote poison from a ranch in Willard and I’m – hack, gag, choke – feeling too weak to finish this review’.”

“Look at the bright side. She didn’t mention his name.”

“I hate that woman, Hubert. How is Ice taking it?”

I thought of him the night after the reviews, smiling as he walking along with Wallace Voile clinging to his arm. “It doesn’t seem to be bothering him,” I said with a straight face.

“Just being brave on the outside, I bet.”

“Maybe you should call him.”

“He’s at work and won’t get off until close to midnight.”

I thought for a while. “The first time you mentioned him to me was only a few weeks ago, and he’s been in Santa Fe for almost half of the time since.”

“And your point is?”

I didn’t know what my point was. I was seeking an oblique entry into murky waters. “It’s none of my business, but if I had a girlfriend in Albuquerque, I wouldn’t mind her calling me in Santa Fe late at night.”

“You did have a girlfriend in Albuquerque when you were in Santa Fe. Did Dolly ever call you after midnight?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She picked up a chip and held it above the salsa absentmindedly.

After an awkward silence, she said, “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No,” I said a little too emphatically. “I’m just saying that if you feel close enough to call him late, he might appreciate it.”

“Why? You said the bad review didn’t seem to bother him.”

“And you said he was just being brave on the outside.”

Another awkward silence. The chip was still poised above the salsa like a reluctant diver on the end of the high board.

“What made you think he’s taking it well?” she finally asked.

“Just a feeling I had. And he was smiling.”

She started to say something but changed her mind. Then she ate the chip, smiled and said, “Is there a way out of this conversation?”

“Thank you. Ask me about something else.”

“O.K., have you resolved your dilemma about how to shop for a wife while you’re going steady with Dolly?”

I wished again I had never used that phrase. “I’m not going steady with her.”

“Maybe you didn’t give her your high school ring, but if you won’t date anyone else, then that’s going steady.”

“I didn’t buy a high school ring.”

She ignored that. “What does Dolly say about your relationship?”

I wondered why Susannah has no qualms about discussing my relationships, and I get a nervous stomach when trying to talk about hers.

“She never talks about it.”

Her eyes dilated. “She’s never said something, like ‘Where do you see this going?’ or ‘I wish we could spend more time together’, something like that?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve been dating for four months and even sleeping together and she’s never mentioned your relationship?”

I shook my head.

“How is that possible? Don’t you talk about arrangements or something?”

“I invite her over sometimes. She invites me over sometimes. We talk on the phone now and then.”

“What do you say to each other at the end of a date?”

“Goodnight. I had a great time. Things like that.”

“The woman is strange, Hubie.”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s an age thing. She’s settled, independent. She has a home. She evidently doesn’t need money because she doesn’t work.”

“Probably gets tons of alimony.”

“Meow.”

“I deserved that.” She laughed. “So you’re saying she doesn’t want a normal relationship with you. She’s perfectly happy to go to your place, have a great meal and a roll in the hay, and then go home.”

I smiled my boyish smile. “Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”

She shook her head. “Every man’s dream.”

37

On Thursday morning around ten, I picked up Dolly, and we drove down the old road towards the Isleta Pueblo.

It was a typical New Mexico winter day, cold dry air and bright sunshine. The trees were bare and the lawns yellow. The grass crunched beneath my feet.

“Who is this Consuela we’re going to see?”

“My second mother.”

“Your father remarried after your mother died?”

The thought of my father being married to Consuela made me chuckle. “No, she was my nanny, although I don’t think I ever heard that word until I was in high school. But that’s what she was. She took care of me from the time my mother brought me home from the hospital.”

“Your mother worked?”

“No, but she was involved in a lot of activities.”

“I didn’t think university professors made enough money to have nannies for their kids.”

“I never thought about it. It seemed we had everything we needed, but we lived modestly. A small house near the university, a Chevy which my mother usually drove. My dad walked to work. I don’t think they paid Consuela much. She was an immigrant, happy to be in the U.S., and they supplied room and board, so she was able to save most of what she earned.”

“Don’t mention it to my dad. You’ll have to endure another lecture on immigration issues.”

Frank Aguirre was the first faculty member at Albuquerque High School to get a Ph.D., and he wrote his dissertation on immigration policy.