Read Online The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier by J. Michael Orenduff - Free Book Online Page A

out some of the pots in the store windows and told her about them.
    She pointed to a shiny purple jug with an iridescent glaze. “What about that one?”
    “That’s called a raku glaze. That’s all I can tell you about it. I only know Indian pottery.”
    “But it was made by an Indian. It lists his name and pueblo on the little sign there.”
    I squinted to read it. “So it does. But it’s not traditional.”
    “Is that bad?”
    I shrugged. “People are free to make whatever they like. I stick to traditional designs.”
    “You sound like Gunter,” she said teasingly. “I wanted to do creative new sauces for some of the dishes, but he said, ‘We must use the traditional sauces’,” she said, trying to imitate his voice. “Did I sound like him?”
    “No,” I said, “but you did sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
    She laughed and placed her hand inside the crook of my elbow. I escorted her around the rest of the Plaza like a gentleman. When we finished our lap, she said, “Would you like to have lunch?”
    We ate at La Casa Sena, no doubt one of the reasons Santa Fe was on Alain Billot’s list of best restaurant towns in the United States. Maria had the poblano chile relleno stuffed with saffron quinoa, yellow squash, crimini mushrooms, asadero cheese, and something they called red chile tropical sauce. Her professional opinion as a saucier was that the sauce was perfect. She gave me a taste and I agreed. She offered me a taste of the stuffing, but I declined because it had quinoa, the eating of which I suspect explains why the Incas never developed the wheel. Quinoa has become popular in New Mexico recently, perhaps because it’s related to the tumbleweed. The main difference is the tumbleweed tastes better.
    I had the New Mexican trout which came with grilled asparagus, cucumber and lemon salsa, achiote and sweet pea rice and Cuban mojo. I rarely eat in restaurants. I enjoy my own cooking and don’t like crowds.
    La Casa Sena is crowded for good reason. The food is great. The crowd didn’t bother me because we had a corner table, and I was too intent on the food and Maria to pay much attention to anything else.
    I ordered a split of Gruet.
    Maria countermanded my order by telling the waitress, “We’ll have the full bottle.” Then she looked at me and said, “Half bottles are for work days.”
    We talked about food. She asked if her poblano chile was the same thing as a chile she had seen in a grocery store labeled as a pasilla. It was, but only because the one in the store was mislabeled. I was happy to show off by explaining that a true pasilla (“little raisin” in Spanish) is a dried chilaca which is used only to make sauces. It is long and narrow whereas the poblano is short and wide. Confusingly, many grocery stores and even some restaurants use the words poblano and pasilla interchangeably.
    We also talked about pottery, and of course we gossiped about Schnitzel’s workforce.
    I tried to get the check, but Maria insisted we split the bill. “It’s lunch with a colleague,” she said. “If it were a lunch date, I’d let you pay.”
    She smiled and my knees went weak. Maybe it was the champagne.

19

    Santa Fe was at its best. Dry snow flakes floated through piñon scented air. The shops were gaily lit and full of holiday shoppers, some of them residents, most of them tourists taking a break from the skiing.
    No one on the street knew that Barry Stiles had died. Even the people at Schnitzel who knew it didn’t care. They had a restaurant to open.
    So why did it bother me? Did Barry Stiles care that his passing left no void? Do the dead have cares?
    I decided the last question was beyond my metaphysical powers, so I turned to one I might have a chance of answering. Why do we hope people will miss us and speak kindly of us when we’re gone? Why do we secretly want to play Tom Sawyer and listen to our own eulogy?
    The answer, I concluded, is that our concern about how we are remembered