Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef (28 page)

My first lunch with her, just the two of us, was prepared and served by her maid – a Mushroom and Gruyère Cheese Omelet with Pommes Frites, a green salad, and a bottle of crisp, dry Muscadet.  Oh my, that was one fabulous lunch.  There were miniature Napoléons for dessert as well, after which we moved to the living room for digestifs.  I will never forget Madame, as we sat there chatting – slowly nodding off, suddenly snoring lightly as she napped away, right there in her chair.  Unfazed, I just sat there sipping my little pony glass of Chartreuse, as Madame gently snored.  I gazed about the room for about fifteen minutes, savoring the solitude of the moment, when suddenly Madame shuddered awake.  She regained her bearings, and we continued chatting as if she had never left.  It was one of those precious and endearing moments that I will never forget.

Madame introduced me to her two friends, Gérard and Philippe, both hairdressers by trade.  I met them one evening at Gérard’s apartment, where I learned that they spoke not a single word of English, with the exception of the lyrics to the songs by a group they referred to as the Villajh Peepul – and they played the album for me as we sipped aperitifs.  I found it quite amusing.

Eventually, we headed out for the old Les Halles neighborhood and Auberge d’Alsace, located on the same block as the celebrated Pied du Cochon, a well-known tourist destination, but also known for an excellent kitchen.  We sat at a table for four, the three of us, plus Fifi, Gérard’s little terrier.  And yes, I do mean that little canine sat in a chair, and had his own little plate from which he ate bits and pieces of food.  Frankly, it was frickin’ hilarious.

I then headed off to Strasbourg – a lovely city, a blend of German and French cultures, due to its national identity having been shifted several times between two world wars.  In fact, the locals spoke three languages – French, German, and Strasbourgeoise – the latter a blend of the two former.  I looked up Francis Klein, and got together with him and some of his friends on several occasions.  I took a few side trips by train, then eventually headed back to Baghdad-by-the-Bay. 

Back in San Francisco, Maxine sent me over to L’Orangerie, a fading jewel of a French restaurant located on the ground floor of The Alexander Hotel on O’Farrell Street, a block south from the venerable Clift Hotel.  L’Orangerie was owned and operated by Madame Madeleine Dupart, former wife of Monsieur Alain Dupart, who had been the genius behind the creation of not only L’Orangerie, but of Marrakech, a Moroccan restaurant located on the basement level below. 

Hans Brandt was the venerable Maître d’Hôtel, and he was one of the most colorful characters I had ever met.  An elderly man with an beautiful personality, he was trapped within a body whose hands shook persistently, a symptom of Parkinson’s.  But his mind was sharp, and he was extremely well-liked and respected by the opera crowd, who represented the old guard and old money of San Francisco.  If it wasn’t for Hans, L’Orangerie would not have survived then.

Hans Brandt was a wealth of information, I loved listening to his rich tales of personalities and gastronomy.  L’Orangerie remained open late on Fridays and Saturdays, offering late night snacks and desserts to the après-opera crowd.  One of those dishes was Chicken Galli-Curci, a dish created in honor of Amelita Galli-Curci (1882-1963), the celebrated Milanese opera diva.  Unable to find the dish in my reference books, Hans shared the recipe with me. 

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Chicken Galli-Curci

1 small shallot, very finely minced

2 tablespoons (30 mL) butter

2 tablespoons (30 mL) flour

2 cups (480 mL) hot chicken stock

1 bay leaf

1 cup (240 mL) heavy cream

salt, pepper and nutmeg to taste

2 cups (480 mL) cooked chicken breast, medium diced

2 cups (480 mL) cooked spinach, finely chopped

1 small sweet potato, baked, peeled, and cut into ½-inch-thick slices

• Sauté the shallot in the butter without browning.  Add the flour, and cook for several minutes, also without browning.  Add the hot stock and bay leaf, blend thoroughly, and simmer thirty minutes. Strain, the return to the stove. Add the cream, and simmer another ten minutes, stirring continuously.  Season to taste with salt, pepper and nutmeg, and set aside.
  
• Divide the sauce in half, and add one half to the chicken, and the other half to the spinach.  Heat both, and adjust seasoning.
  
• Arrange a border of creamed spinach around the outside edge of a serving plate.  Place the chicken in the center, and top with a slice of sweet potato.
  

 
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Chicken Galli-Curci is one of a number of l dishes created in San Francisco in honor of well-known personalities – among them Turkey Tetrazzini, Celery Victor, and the well-known Spaghetti Caruso, created for operatic tenor Enrico Caruso (1873-1921).  Caruso was in San Francisco in 1906, and appeared in Carmen at the Mission Opera House the night before the quake struck.  The following narrative of his experience, appeared in
The Sketch
in London and in the July 1906 edition of
The Theatre
magazine.

“You ask me to say what I saw during the terrible days which witnessed the destruction of San Francisco?  There have been many accounts published in the American papers, some claiming that I was terribly frightened, that I went half crazy with fear, that I sat upon my valise in the square and wept – but all this is untrue.  I was frightened, as many others were, but I did not lose my head.  I had a room at the Palace Hotel, and the night before the great catastrophe I had sung in Carmen and I went to bed that night feeling happy and contented.”

“I am not a very heavy sleeper – I always wake early, and on Wednesday morning I woke up about 5:00 AM, and feel my bed rocking as though I am in a ship on the ocean.  I go to the window, raise the shade and I see the buildings toppling over, big pieces of masonry falling, and from the street below I hear the cries and screams of men and women and children.”

“Speechless, I thought I am in some dreadful nightmare, and for something like forty seconds I stand there while the buildings fall and my room rocks like a boat, and during that forty seconds I think of forty-thousand different things and all that I have ever done in my life passes before me, and I remember trivial things and important things.”

“I gather my faculties together and call for my valet.  He comes rushing in quite cool, and without any tremor in his voice he says: “It is nothing.” But all the same he advises me to dress quickly and go into the open, lest the hotel fall and crush us to powder.  By this time the plaster on the ceiling has fallen in a great shower, covering the bed and the carpet and the furniture.  I do not deny that I feel nervous, for I still think the building will fall to the ground and crush us.”

“Then we run down the stairs and into the street, and my valet, brave fellow that he is, goes back and bundles all my things into trunks and drags them down six flights of stairs and out into the open one by one. While he is gone, I watch those that have already arrived, and presently someone comes and tries to take my trunks saying they are his.  I say, “No, they are mine,” but he does not go away. Then a soldier comes up to me and he recognizes me and makes the man who takes an interest in my baggage skiddoo as Americans say.”

“Then I make my way to Union Square, where I see some of my friends, and one of them tells me he has lost everything except his voice, but he is thankful that he has still got that. Soon I see the flames and all the city seems to be on fire. This night we are forced to sleep on the hard ground in the open. My limbs ache yet from so rough a bed.”

“Then my valet succeeds in getting a man with a cart, who says he will take us to the Oakland Ferry.  We pass terrible scenes on the way: buildings in ruins, and everywhere there seems to be smoke and dust. The driver seems in no hurry, which makes me impatient, for I am longing to return to New York, where I know I shall find a ship to take me to my beautiful Italy and my wife and my little boys.  Even now I can only sleep an hour at a time, for the experience was a terrible one.”

 
― ● ―

Spaghetti Caruso
 (Serves 4-to-6)

2 tablespoons (30 mL) extra virgin olive oil

½ pound (¼ kg) fresh chicken livers, rinsed, membranes removed, cut into four pieces each

flour as needed

¼ cup (60 mL) unsalted butter

4 garlic cloves, pressed or finely minced

½ cup (120 mL) Spanish onion, medium diced

2 cups (480 mL) mushrooms, sliced thin

1 cup (240 mL) of dry red wine

2-12 ounce (2-360 mL) cans tomato purée

¼ cup (60 mL) parsley, finely chopped

salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste

1 pound (½ kg) spaghetti

grated cheese as needed

• Season the livers with salt and pepper, and dust lightly with flour.  Heat the oil until smoking, sauté the livers until brown and firm, then set aside.
  
• Add the butter to the pan and sauté the garlic, onions and mushrooms for 5 minutes.  Add the wine and simmer until reduced by half.
  
• Add the tomatoes and the chicken livers, blend, simmer for 20 minutes, and season to taste.
  
• Cook the spaghetti until al dente, drain, and serve topped with the sauce, chopped parsley, and accompanied by grated parmesan cheese.
  

 
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The other big item on the late-night menu was a Raspberry Soufflé, which was prepared by Pati (pronounced “pah-tee”), the pantry man.  Pati fled Cambodia during the Pol Pot purge that began in 1975.  It wasn’t difficult to discern that he was carrying around the memory of some unspeakable experiences, and that he had probably suffered in that horror.  I later learned that his entire family had been murdered by the Khmer Rouge.

There was another employee in my new kitchen, Peter Tunney, whom I dubbed double-gay for the two earrings he wore at all times. 
Deeply committed to his double gay lifestyle, he informed me upon his arrival on the afternoon of May 21, 1979, that he would help me set up the line, and that he would be departing before 6:00 PM in order to participate in the demonstration that was planned for that evening – the demonstration that turned into the White Night Riots.

While I had little authority over the overly-assertive Tunney, I was also sympathetic to the incident that had sparked the demonstration, and I certainly had no affinity for the likes of Dan White.  Tunney later made a complete ass of himself by coming in one afternoon dressed in drag and a chef’s coat, complete with fish-net stockings, high heels, lip stick and mascara, accompanied by a photographer who proceeded to shoot a series of Miss Peter in assorted poses – next to the dishwashing station, in front of the pick-up line, holding a sauté pan, and so on.  It was awkward and embarrassing, and he never returned.

At the end of the night, around 11:30, I headed out from the restaurant, and took the Nob Hill cable car over into North Beach – an experience that remains the most romantic commute I have ever had the good fortune to engage in.  At that hour there were few riders on the system, and I would disembark at Union Street, walk two blocks down into North Beach, the Italian District, and unwind over a couple of beers.  I then took the electric bus home to my garden apartment in the Marina District.

As for the cable car system, it was just over a century old, still one of the most efficient forms of inter-urban light rail transportation systems ever devised – and a significant part of the charm of San Francisco. In the 1940s,
several cable car lines had been replaced by buses, and in 1947 Mayor Robert Lapham announced “the cable cars must go,” as he began to dismantle the cable car system.  This initiated the “Cable Car War” led by Friedel Klussmann and her “Citizens Committee to Save the Cable Cars.”  San Francisco voters supported the retention of the cable lines, and though several lines were abolished in 1954, the current three lines were renovated between 1982 and 1984, and remain in excellent working condition. 

Over the next few years I worked a variety of jobs, including a brief stint at Little Joes, a small, hole-in-the-wall, counter restaurant started by former sanitation worker Franco Montarello.  Franco got lucky with a 20-seat counter, and cooking range on the other side, where the action was always fast and furious.  Franco was not the smartest guy in the world, but he was definitely a major ham, which customers found relatively charming.  After several years he moved to an even larger space, around the corner on Broadway, while his old space was eventually taken over by The Stinking Rose - the ultimate garlic restaurant.

One of my duties was to prepare meals for the waitresses and line cooks during their lunch or dinner break. 
Using ingredients at hand, I often created some very unique pasta dishes. 
Several from that time follow:

 
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Spaghetti Loretta

2 tablespoons (30 mL) olive oil

½ cup (120 mL) mushrooms sliced very thin

2 cloves garlic, sliced very thin

½ cup (120 mL) small broccoli flowerets, blanched al dente

¼ cup (60 mL) demi-glaze (brown gravy)

2 cups (480 mL) spaghetti, cooked al dente

2 tablespoons (30 mL) grated parmesan cheese

• Heat the olive oil until smoking, and sauté the mushrooms until golden brown.  Add the garlic and continue cooked several minutes.  Add the broccoli and brown gravy, and blend.  Heat the spaghetti in hot water, drain well, and combine with the sauce.  Top with the grated cheese, and serve.