Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef

by David Paul Larousse

  Very soon after opening, The WashBag became the favored gathering place for a generation of writers, politicians, musicians, social elite and wanna-be’s. It was a late 20th-century incarnation of Rector's, the celebrated New York City gathering place on Times Square, opened by Charles Rector in 1900, and lasting until 1947 when Rector’s son George passed away. Rector’s was celebrated by the journalists of its time as “the favored hangout of playboys, prize fighters, actors, journalists, statesmen, and the like.” The WashBag was often compared to Elaine’s, a widely celebrated, though much more hip and chic bar and restaurant on New York’s Upper East Side – that catered to a similar clientele.

  Moose was an enigma. He had no food service experience, nor was he particularly sophisticated. But he had a combination of personality and business sense – the old je ne sais quoi charisma that attracted the hoy-paloy of the town and beyond. In addition, Moose was a near genius at publicizing his restaurant, and his softball team, Les Lapins Sauvage – the Wild Rabbits – staffed by notable locals who were regular restaurant patrons, remains an extraordinary Public Relations coup. Herb Caen often wrote of the team's exploits in his newspaper columns, describing their travels playing in major stadiums around the world. In 1989 Ron Fimrite, a member of the softball team and author of Square: the Story of a Saloon – penned a nine-page story for Sports Illustrated magazine about a Lapins Sauvage game in the Bois de Bologne in Paris. The game was played on August 8, 1979, against a team sponsored by Le Moulin du Village, a neighborhood Paris restaurant, and was touted as the “Softball Championship of Western Europe.” Les Lapins Sauvage won, with a score of 40-to-22.

  I worked occasionally at the WashBag over the years, and though the owner and I never got along particularly well, it was one of the most interesting places I have ever plied my craft. I happened to be on duty on Sunday, January 10, 1982, when the Forty-Niners football team battled the Dallas Cowboys in a playoff game for a berth in their first Super Bowl. At 3:00 PM the kitchen closed, and I came out to the dining room for a beer. Two customers seated nearby, invited me to join them, and I found myself right in the middle of the wildest afternoon party I had ever witnessed.

  The game was down to the last two minutes of the final quarter, and Dallas was leading by a score of 27-to-21. Both the bar and the restaurant were packed solid, and the tension in the air was palpable. There were two photographers – one from The New York Times and another from The S.F. Chronicle – who were literally climbing along the back shelf of the bar to photograph the frenzy of the moment.

  The 49ers moved the ball down to the Dallas 6-yard line, where they faced third down-and-three with 58 seconds remaining on the clock. As Cowboy’s defensive ends Ed “Too Tall” Jones and Larry Bethea chased quarterback Joe Montana, he appeared to be headed out-of-bounds. But he made a pump-fake – to get 6-foot-9-inch "Too Tall" Jones to jump up prematurely – then threw a high pass to the back of the end zone. Dwight Clark then made what is still referred to today as “The Catch” – an absolutely stunning, leaping grab with his fingertips for the winning touchdown. The photo of Clark making that catch, was posted on the next issue of Sports Illustrated.

  At that moment the WashBag exploded in a way I had never witnessed in all my years before or since. The release of pent-up fan energy was astounding, probably the equivalent of several million gallons of water cascading over the Niagara Falls.

  The day-shift dishwasher at the WashBag was Romaldo, who had started working there on day one back in 1973, and had literally never missed a day of work. He was a quiet, unassuming and polite man, married with five children, and frankly, I always marveled at how he managed to raise a family on the meager salary of a restaurant dishwasher. But such loyalty and dedication did not go unnoticed by the owner. To celebrate Romaldo’s twenty-fifth anniversary there, Ed Moose hired a Mariachi Band and hosted a full-on, midday party to celebrate Romaldo’s accomplishment. I found it intriguing that Moose was able to affirm the importance of what one might consider the lowliest member of the kitchen staff. But as a chef, I know full well just how important the plongeur is.

  On another evening, when I was working a dinner shift, waitress Judy Berkeley came in at 10:00 PM and asked if I could make a Baked Alaska. With only an hour remaining before the kitchen closed, the business had slowed down to a trickle, so I said “Of course. What’s the occasion?”

  Apparently a friend of hers was celebrating his wife’s birthday, and her favorite dish was Baked Alaska. I told Judy I would need forty-five minutes for the task.

  The original dish, invented in 1804 by American-born physicist Banjamin Thompson Rumford (1753-1814), was named Omelette Norvegienne. Sixty-three years later, it became one of the great gastronomic achievements of American cuisine, when Charles Ranhofer, the legendary chef at New York City's restaurant dynasty, Delmonicos, put it onto his menu to honor Secretary of State William Henry Seward’s purchase of the Alaska territory on March 30, 1867, for $7.2-million (the equivalent of $95-million in 2005 dollars). Baked Alaska received considerable press then, due to public's outrage over "Seward’s Folly,” “Seward’s Icebox,” and Vice-President Andrew Johnson’s “Polar Bear Garden” - in reference to the 586,412 square miles of land, purchased from Russia for 2¢ per acre. The dessert was thus popularized, and the Alaska territory became known as the greatest purchase of the century.

  Ranhofer’s original dessert was in the form of a tall cone, though modern versions take several different shapes. I have had it in France, shaped like a flattened football, though on this particular evening I sliced up some rum-soaked butter cake – the only cake I had at the time – and arranged it in a 6-inch (15 cm) circle on an oval stainless-steel platter. I topped that with a half-dome of vanilla ice cream, then returned it to the freezer. After beating a stiff meringue, I piped it out in a simple motif with a pastry bag holding a star tube. I set an empty half eggshell in the center, then browned the meringue with a small blow-torch. When the waitress arrived, I filled the egg shell with three-ounces of warmed brandy, lit it, brought it out to the dining room. At the table, I jiggled the platter lightly, with just enough movement to cause the brandy to spill out of the eggshell, over the lightly browned meringue and down around the sides of the dish. Pleased with my success, I went back to the kitchen and finished closing up.

  Back in my street clothes, I ordered a beer and sat down at the employee dining table to unwind and savor my accomplishment – providing the birthday girl with a memorable desert. Judy Berkeley didn’t bother thanking me, but I knew that I had exceeded all expectations, by creating a Baked Alaska without advance notice. So the least I could do was pat myself on the back for a job well done. “Baked Alaska? Oh yeah. That was a piece of cake.”

  Having grown up in and around New York City, and having spent some time in Western Europe, I eventually came to realize that Rudyard Kipling’s observation that San Francisco was “…a mad city – inhabited for the most part by perfectly insane people” – was well earned. One of the most outlandish characters from the early days of San Francisco was Emperor Norton – born Joshua Abraham Norton in London in 1819, raised in South Africa, and who emigrated to San Francisco in 1849. With a bankroll of $40,000 from his father's estate, Norton invested in real estate, successfully expanding his initial investment more than six-fold by 1852 – to roughly $250,000.

  That same year, China banned rice exports, due to a famine, causing the price of rice in San Francisco to skyrocket from four-cents per pound to thirty-six cents per pound. When Norton heard that 200,000 pounds of rice were en route from Peru, he bought all of it for $25,000, hoping to corner the rice market. On December 22, 1852, he put down two-thousand-dollars and signed a contract to pay the remainder of the $25,000 within thirty days.

  The next day several shiploads of rice from Peru came into San Francisco harbor, causing the price of rice to plummet to three-cents per pound. Norton tried to void the contract, and for the next five years he and the rice dealers engaged in prot
racted litigation. Norton prevailed in the lower courts, but the California Supreme Court ruled against him, after which his bank foreclosed on his real estate holdings to pay his debt.

  Norton declared bankruptcy in 1858, and left the city for a while. When he returned, he had become visibly disgruntled with the legal and political structures of the United States, and his mental state appeared to have been affected by the earlier financial setbacks. As a result, on September 17, 1859 he proclaimed himself "Emperor of these United States," later adding the title "Protector of Mexico."

  Over the years Norton issued numerous decrees on matters of the state, including formerly “dissolving” the United States Congress on October 12, 1859 – and in November summoning the army to depose the elected officials of the Congress (an official act that is sorely needed in the early years of the 21st-century).

  Undeterred that his attempts to overthrow the government by force were completely ignored, on August 12, 1869 he abolished both the Democratic and Republican parties (another excellent idea – then and now!). Three years later he issued an edict against the use of the name “Frisco” for his adopted home, deeming it a “High Misdemeanor,” and instituting a penalty of twenty-five dollars – payable to the ”Imperial Treasury.” (In 1953 San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen published a collection of essays under the title “Don’t Call It Frisco,” and to this day, it remains a local affirmation held on to by local residents.)

  Norton spent his days as Emperor inspecting the streets of San Francisco in an elaborate blue uniform, decorated with gold-plated epaulets given to him by officers from the Presido Army post, and a beaver hat decorated with a peacock feather. During his inspections he examined the condition of the sidewalks and cable cars, the state of repair of public property, and the appearance of police officers. Norton frequently gave lengthy philosophical lecture to anyone within earshot.

  It was during one of his inspections that Norton performed one of his most famous acts of "diplomacy." During the 1860s and 1870s there were a number of anti-Chinese demonstrations in the poorer districts of San Francisco that occasionally grew into riots and resulted in fatalities. During one such incident, Norton positioned himself between the rioters and their Chinese targets, and with a bowed head started reciting the Lord’s Prayer repeatedly until the rioters dispersed without incident.

  Norton was much loved and revered by the citizens of San Francisco, and though he was penniless, he regularly ate at the finest restaurants in San Francisco. The restaurateurs who fed him, would later post a brass plaque at their entrances declaring "by Appointment to his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Norton I of the United States," a gesture that was much prized and a substantial boost to their trade. In addition, no play or musical performance in San Francisco ever opened without reserving balcony seats for Norton.

  In 1867, police officer Armand Barbier arrested Norton for the purpose of committing him to involuntary treatment for a mental disorder. The arrest outraged the citizens of San Francisco and sparked a number of scathing editorials in the local newspapers. Police Chief Patrick Crowley speedily rectified matters by ordering Norton released and issuing a formal apology on behalf of the police force. Chief Crowley observed of the self-styled monarch "that he had shed no blood; robbed no one; and despoiled no country; which is more than can be said of his fellows in that line." Of course Norton was magnanimous enough to grant an "Imperial Pardon" to the errant young police officer. Possibly as a result of this scandal, all police officers of San Francisco thereafter saluted Norton as he passed in the street.

  In the 1870 U.S. census, at the age of 50 years old, Norton’s occupation was listed as "Emperor." Norton issued his own money on occasion in order to pay for certain debts, and this became an accepted local currency in San Francisco. Typically these notes came in denominations ranging anywhere from fifty-cents to ten dollars, and the few notes still extant are collector's items. When his uniform began to look shabby, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors bought him a suitably regal replacement, and in return, the Emperor sent them a gracious note of thanks and issued a "patent of nobility in perpetuity" for each supervisor.

  Norton collapsed on the corner of California Street and Dupont Street (now Grant Street) in front of Old St. Mary’s Church, on January 8, 1880. And though a police officer called for a carriage to take him to the Hospital, he died before it arrived. The following day the San Francisco Chronicle published his obituary on its front page: "Le Roi est Mort" ("The King is Dead").

  Contrary to the rumors, Norton died virtually penniless, with five-or-six dollars in small change on his person, and a single sovereign coin worth around $2.50 found in his boarding house room on Commercial Street. An estimated 30,000 people lined the streets to pay homage, creating a funeral cortege two-miles long. Buried at the Masonic Cemetery in 1934, Norton's remains were transferred to a grave site at Woodlawn Cemetery in Colma, with a large stone inscribed "Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico"

  Norton’s legacy was immortalized in the literature of Mark Twain and Robert Louis Stevenson, who based characters on him. He was also something of a visionary, and among his many edicts and "Imperial Decrees" were instructions to form a League of Nations; and to construct a suspension bridge and tunnel connecting Oakland and San Francisco (September 17, 1872). President Woodrow Wilson’s League of Nations did not last long (1920-1946), but laid the foundation for the United Nations. And it took some years, but the Oakland-Bay Bridge was completed in 1933 after three years of construction, and the BART trans-bay tube in 1972, also after three years of construction.

  The legacy of Emperor Norton set a standard of eccentric behavior that significantly influenced the culture of the city, and there are hundreds of stories, big and small, about the many characters who were drawn to this open ambiance of civic freedom of expression. One such character was Albert Butterworth, a round, gregarious, well-dressed man who rolled into the city in 1980, or thereabouts, and announced his intention to open an exclusive private Opera Club, ostensibly for the well-funded residents of the city. Maxine Lockley recommended me as the caterer for his coming-out party intended to announce the forthcoming opening of the Club, and I subsequently agreed to prepare the food for this event, held at a private residence in Pacific Heights. Everyone who was anyone was invited, especially those who were potential investors in Butterworth’s enterprise. Unfortunately, the invitations had the wrong date printed on them, which seriously diminished the turnout and ultimately put the kibosh on the entire project. Though Butterworth’s check bounced initially, he did make good on his payment shortly thereafter. And of course he soon departed the city, never to be heard from again.

  During this same period I worked occasionally for Armando Arroyo, a flamboyant Mexican entrepreneur who had started a catering business, and soon had established himself as the premier caterer in the city. At one point Armando had made so much money that he bought an island off the coast of Mexico and single-handedly transformed its sleepy economy into a small, blazing economic miracle.

  I worked occasionally as a server for Armando’s events, including a fundraiser for ACT – American Conservatory Theatre – for which Macy’s had donated the top five floors of their department store for the event. The theme was an ancient Roman Bacchanal, and it began with a full bar up on the fourth floor. On the fifth and sixth floors was a multi-station buffet, in rolling wooden carts – featuring a roasted pig, and endless stations of all manner of magnificent food. A dessert emporium was stationed on the seventh floor, and at 10:00 PM, a three-piece band with portable dance floor began setting up on the eighth – the top floor.

  Tickets were priced at $250, with sixty-percent of that going to ACT, the remainder for the catering. All the servers were dressed in mid-thigh-length brown togas, sandals, and a leafy wreath upon our heads. It was a great party, with sumptuous food and first-rate service, presented in an exclusive environment, with special touches – such as leopards and other exotic
animals from the San Francisco zoo paraded around on leashes – just the kind of decadent thing that went on in the late years of the Roman Empire.

  When my work for the evening was finished, I changed back into evening attire and joined the partying up on the eighth floor. I quenched my thirst with a beer, and danced up a storm for the next three hours. As I said, it was a great party.

  About 3:00 AM I headed back down the locked escalators, waved good-bye to the guards, and walked out onto Geary Street. And at that very moment Kathy Peterson, one of the cocktail waitresses with whom I worked at the Clift Hotel, was driving by. She saw me just as I exited the front door of Macy’s, pulled up in her green VW bug, and inquired, “Hey, chef. Going my way?” She dropped me off at my home – making the perfect ending to a perfect evening.

  As for Armando, he was one of the most charming and hard-working entrepreneurs I have ever known, and of course he partied hardy with the best of them, often burning the candle at both ends. In the late 1980s, after being diagnosed with the HIV virus, he liquidated his possessions, and moved to New York to live out the time he had left. His was a flame that burned bright and fast – and he was one of the good who died young. He will be missed.

  In 1982, Ed Moose’s wife Maryetta, asked if I would come in and take on the duties of Sunday Brunch Chef. Moose was willing to pay me cash for the day, and my day rate then was $90. At a time when cook’s station pay was $65 per shift, and given that Moose and I had never really gotten along very well, I know he did not like paying me that amount, but he could not find a responsible chef to handle the job for any length of time, and I always took care of business – which is to say that I was well worth the expense.

  Several months into my one-day per week job preparing brunch, I entered a food-art show sponsored by the University of California at Berkeley. The show, a fundraiser for U.C. Berkeley’s Art Museum, was entitled “Eat Your Art Out.” I asked Ronnie Barber, the regular day chef, if he would cover my Brunch shift on that Sunday, then three weeks away. He was glad to help me out, and I made sure that the Moose’s were aware that I would be taking the day off for the competition.