The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (19 page)

“Yes, but we don’t have time to set up a new bank account. We must use an existing one. My nephew set up the system that allows me to accept cards at my shop. We can use my account if you trust me.”

“But of course,” he responded. Then he thought for a moment. “Perhaps we should not tell the others.”

I agreed, and Tristan went to work on the computer that served as a cash register and credit card processor. He had my account number and my bank’s routing number, and in less than five minutes, the change had been made. I stood guard during the process, but it turned out to be unnecessary. The back-of-the-house staff were all in the kitchen, and the front-of-the-house staff had not yet arrived.

The usual pre-opening chaos set in around noon. I became the garçon again, this time joined by Tristan who demonstrated a knack for setting tables.

At ten minutes to six, I left the building through the loading dock and walked down the alley until I could see the entrance. Forty or fifty people were milling around. We were going to have a busy night.

What is it, I wondered, about Santa Fe? Are they really such avid restaurant goers that any opening draws a crowd? Are they just curious about the odd concept of Austrian/Southwestern fusion? Do they have more money than sense?

Or are they just hungry?

When Wallace opened the doors at precisely six, her three assistants managed to be attentive and welcoming to each party they seated while at the same time doing so quickly enough that no one had a long wait. All twenty tables were occupied by six fifteen. As we saw them fill, Tristan and I rushed to the private dining area and dressed the four tables there. The last napkin had scarcely been inserted into its ring when Wallace showed a party of four to the back table.

“A special table for special people,” she said, her voice as smooth and cold as Jell-O, but they loved it.

The seatings were smooth and the service speedy. Because of the prix fixe menu, most things were precooked. An order of schnitzel con tres chiles required merely placing the schnitzel on a warm plate, dousing it with the jalapeno sauce and spooning a portion of habañero relish on one side and poblanos spätzle on the other. When the kitchen staff saw how many orders were being placed, they started plating them up before the orders came in. There had been some concern that we had more staff than required, but the crowd was so large and the turnover so fast that Alain quickly grasped that enough had not been prepared. He ordered a third of the staff to plate, a third to deliver, and the other third to start preparing more of everything. Tristan joined the wait staff and I tended bar, which, thankfully, consisted mostly of opening beer bottles and pouring wine for those who ordered it by the glass.  

At one point, someone ordered a Rob Roy. I told the waitress who brought the order to tell the customer we were out of gin. She said a Rob Roy isn’t made with gin, so I told her to change the excuse to we don’t serve cocktails named after bandits. She gave me a funny look and left. I’m confident she had the good sense to make up a better excuse than the one I suggested, but I had neither the time nor the inclination to learn how to make a Rob Roy. Nor did I attempt to fill the orders for a Sex on the Beach or an Alabama Slammer. Someone also ordered an Orgasm (presumably the name of a drink). I wondered if it was the same person who wanted sex on the beach.

I did manage scotch on the rocks, bourbon and coke, and a martini. The latter was ordered very dry and delivered even drier because I couldn’t find the vermouth.

Despite the best efforts of the kitchen crew, demand eventually overwhelmed supply. The wait staff explained that the smoked trout appetizer was sold out. Soon the schnitzel con tres chiles was no longer available. The Linzer torte was crossed off the dessert menu. The smoked duck breast was sold out, followed by – to my surprise – the tafelspitz Sangre de Cristo.

By the time we closed the doors at shortly after ten, we had served 297 diners and taken in $10,325.56 in charges and tips, almost all of which was now residing in my bank account, a fact that was roiling my stomach.

Alain gathered everyone in the dining room, dragging Scruggs and his assistants out of the scullery against their protests that the pots should be scrubbed before having any meeting.

“When I told Molinero we had become a compagnie, it was mostly just blowing the air. I wanted him to know we are determined. Tonight, you saved me from making the false boast.”

Idle boast, I thought to myself.

“We had a full house, and the customers liked the food. But we should remember how soon they disappeared after our opening as Schnitzel. Hubert Schuze is serving as the manager. He has an announcement for you.”

“We are not in a position to pay anyone a salary. But Alain and I have decided the staff should be paid half of the gross revenue each night. The other half will go for supplies. This is a temporary plan, subject to change as we see how things go. Half of tonight’s take is approximately five thousand dollars. There were twenty five people working tonight, so that is exactly two hundred dollars per person. Of course it is normal for a chef to make more than a waiter, a waiter to make more than a pot scrubber, etc. I am not taking any pay, but I would like my expenses to be reimbursed at some point. Alain and I want you to agree on a plan for splitting the money. We will wait in the bar. After you decide, you need to do the usual cleaning. We will pay you at eleven in the morning. We will need all day to get ready if we have another night like tonight.”

“How will you pay us?” asked Wallace Voile.

“In cash,” I replied.

“But almost all the customers used credit cards. The money will not be available until the charges have cleared.”

“I have made special arrangements for that,” I said.

“Special arrangements?”

“Yes. Are there any other questions?”

Although she was glaring at me for ignoring her implied question of what the special arrangements were, she did so from a composed face.

Arliss Mansfield said, “I don’t have a question, but I do have a request.”

“Yes?”

He stood and turned to face the others. “I think we should give Alain and Hubie a round of applause.”

They made it a robust round. Alain and I thanked them and retreated to the bar with Tristan. I opened a bottle of Gruet. I was certain it was better than the ginger ale I had brought.

Tristan opened a beer, Alain filled two coupes, and we toasted the evening. I usually drink Gruet from a flute, but the coupe was fun because the bubbles tickled my nose.

“Did you taste the food?” I asked.

“Of course. Nothing leaves my kitchen untasted.”

“And?”

“The ‘meat with crust’, as Jürgen names it, is not to my taste. The sauce, however, is fresh and light. The beef dish is too complicated, but the ginger from the soda gives it a certain Je ne sais quoi. The mole deserves a star from Michelin. But it should not be pushed inside a potato dumpling.”

“So these dishes will not be on the menu of your American food restaurant in France?”

“I am thinking the mole will be served over cous-cous.”

We had closed the French doors but we could hear voices from the dining room, occasionally raised. Wallace Voile left two minutes into the meeting. Helen Mure stomped out after another ten. Shortly after that, the meeting broke up and the cleaning commenced.

Arliss Mansfield had been delegated to convey the plan they had agreed to.

“I speak on behalf of the proletariat,” he said with a smile. “We have voted for the first few days at least to give every worker an equal share.”

Alain left. I suppose as de facto chef de cuisine, he wouldn’t be expected to help clean. Tristan said he might as well pitch in, and I saw him enter the scullery. I sat at the bar with my Gruet in order not to be in the way of those doing the cleaning.

As I was finishing my second coupe, Maria Salazar brought me some toasted crusty bread slices spread with piñon and apricot pesto. The pesto had outlasted the trout. We shared the toast and champagne, the first food either of us had had for twelve hours.

We talked about the evening, speculating on what the future held for Chile Schnitzel. We talked about the food, about how the staff had rallied together, about their surprising decision to share the wealth.

“Power to the people,” I said, and we made a mock toast.

“Well, most of them. Helen Mure walked out when it was clear we were going to vote equal shares,” she said.

“I saw Wallace leave, too.”

“That was odd,” she said. “She left before we even got to the topic of pay. She didn’t say a word. She just waited until the first person started talking and then quietly slipped away.”

Maria had also been quietly slipping, but in my direction rather than away, scooting her stool closer to mine each time she reached for a piece of toast or lifted her coupe to sip the bubbly. We were now shoulder to shoulder at the bar. Like communist comrades.

But I wondered whether camaraderie was all she had in mind.

“Maybe Wallace wanted to celebrate our success with someone special,” she suggested. “How about you, Hubie? Would you like to celebrate with me?”

“Uh…”

“I have some cold Gruet at my place.”

What to do? At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I said, “I’m in a relationship.”

She laughed. “You are so cute. Are you trying to tell me you’re ‘going steady’?”

“Well, uh…”

“You aren’t married, are you?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Living with a woman?”

“No.”

She stuck her hands on her hip. In a playful schoolmarmish voice, she said, “In a relationship with a man?”

I couldn’t help laughing. “No.”

“Well, in that case, I think it’s probably safe for you to have a glass of champagne at my apartment.”

She smiled at me. I smiled back.

I realized I didn’t have to decide whether to accept or decline her offer. “I have to take Tristan home,” I said.

47

I fortified myself with strong black coffee before approaching the reviews the next morning, jumping into the deep end by starting with Dagmar Mortensen. The headline was noncommittal – “Herr Today, Gone Tomorrow?”

Readers of this column who believe my recent negative review of Schnitzel led to its closing give me too much credit. The food was bad enough to do that without my help.

We were not surprised that Schnitzel closed. We are surprised that it reopened and astonished that it now claims to be Austrian/ Southwestern fusion, a claim so outrageous as to require a second visit.

The space still resembles Mad King Ludwig’s Bavarian Castle, but with the word ‘Chile’ added in front of the word ‘Schnitzel’ in what appears to be a case of graffiti. Needless to say, my companion and I approached with trepidation.

The same lovely hostess showed us to the same impressive table setting. But after the napkins were pulled from their rings and laid across our laps, everything changed.

First, the menu is now prix fixe, an appetizer, entrée and dessert for only nineteen dollars. I chose the smoked trout with piñon and apricot pesto, a spectacular homage to our Land of Enchantment. The fish tasted like it had been swimming in the Chama that morning, and the piñon and apricot were equally fresh.

My companion selected the Caesar salad with Verdolagas, an overlooked green even among New Mexicans. I can only assume these were hothouse grown given the time of year, but they were crisp, tart, and delicious. The garlicky dressing had a Southwestern snap.

The Gebratener Leberkäse of my previous visit is nowhere to be found, heaven be praised. My entrée was the oddly named schnitzel de tres chiles, which featured perhaps the best jalapeno-flavored sauce I have ever tasted. The other dos chiles were a fiery habañero relish which was too hot to eat and a wonderful poblano infused spätzle.

My companion had the tafelspitz Sangre de Cristo, a dish I judged to be less successful than my schnitzel de tres chiles. However, it did have a subtle ginger undertone and a spicy horseradish sauce that worked well together. My companion actually preferred her dish to mine, so I am hesitant to denigrate the New Mexican version of tafelspitz.

Chile Schnitzel has wisely retained the desserts from their original menu, the sole addition being a chipotle sugar crème brûlée which may be the best dessert I have ever tasted.

The Salzburger Nockerln and Linzer torte were as good as I remembered, but overshadowed by the magnificent crème brûlée.

I admit to being astonished that a restaurant that relied so heavily on fat, sugar and salt has managed to create a menu that captures the flavors of our region in new and inventive ways. My only concern is whether they will be able to sustain this new approach.

I shared her concern. Despite the relief – even elation – I felt after reading her review, I wondered what was next. A restaurant that serves only three appetizers and three entrées will fail when customers tire of those dishes, and I didn’t think Austrian/Southwestern fusion offered many options beyond the few we had dreamt up.

I retrieved the five thousand dollars from my secret hiding place and took it to Santa Fe. After handing out the two-hundred-dollar shares, I had eight hundred dollars left over because Wallace Voile and her three assistants in the front of house crew had not shown up at eleven to claim their shares. Although we had agreed to use half of the proceeds for supplies, we had no proceeds at that point because the credit card charges had not cleared into my account.

Alain needed at least a few essentials, so I gave him the eight hundred, and he and Jürgen went shopping. I would just have to tell the front of house crew they would get paid the next day, a task I was dreading because they normally do not show up as early as the kitchen crew. It seemed unfair to tell them, in effect, that the check was in the mail simply because they had kept to their normal schedule. Still, we had said eleven for everyone. But when they weren’t there by four, I began to worry less about telling them they wouldn’t get paid and more about who was going to serve if they didn’t show.