I entered one of my Mukimono bouquets – a sculpture made up of fruits and vegetables carved into flower forms. The competition was intense, and I did not receive an award – which though disappointing, I was still glad to have had a chance to participate. Two entries were so remarkable, that I remember them to this day: 1- a pair of U.C. Berkeley art students dressed in 16th-century Florentine costume, complete with hats, painting Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper onto a 5-by-3-foot-by-2-inch slab of white chocolate using food colors for paint; and 2- a 12-inch-tall pair of hands in prayer sculpted from cheese, holding a sprig of thyme, above a small congregation of green peas, with a caption that read, “Cheeses Praying for Peas in Our Thyme.” Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.
The following Monday, Ed Moose left a message on my phone machine, informing me that my services were no longer needed.
It is most intriguing to point out that about 15 years after the GEU crew had frequented Vic’s bar on Belden Alley, a French entrepreneur by the name of Olivier Azencot opened Café Bastille on the far end of Belden Alley, which became a very popular place. Sometime later, an Italian restaurant, Tiramisu, opened next door; followed by a sister restaurant to Bastille – Plouf. Within a few years, the alley was full of restaurants: another Bastille-funded operation, B-44, with a Catalan menu; and a handful of other eateries. Olivier was very modest about his accomplishment, but he had sparked the creation of a small restaurant zone that has come to be called “The Latin Quarter.” Two of his former waiters, David Mega and Thierry Collomb opened their own place on the alley – the Voda Lounge – which became the hot spot for Gen-Xers and others who liked to immerse themselves in the culture and the latest innovative varieties of vodka.
Olivier also began petitioning the city to make some improvements, and about a decade after Café Bastille had first opened its doors the city agreed to fill in the street with a layer of asphalt that evened it out, bringing it up to what had been the sidewalk curb. It was a huge improvement, and by eliminating the unevenness of the previous street, the outdoor café scene became far more secure and comfortable.
To illustrate its popularity, a couple of pals and I went down to the alley on July 13th 1998, the day after the French Soccer team had beaten Brazil in Marseilles in the World Cup soccer competition, 3-to-0. Belden Alley was packed solid, literally, wall-to-wall and end-to-end with people, while three enormous TV screens hung above the crowd, showing the celebrations of more than a half-million Parisians 6,000 miles away on the Champs Élysées. Another great party indeed. And fascinating that it took a French entrepreneur to turn a trash alley in San Francisco into a small, thriving restaurant zone
On November 27, 1978, a rumor spread through the city like wild-fire – that Mayor George Moscone had been assassinated. The rumor turned out to be true, and the city was stunned to learn that Supervisor Dan White had climbed into City Hall through a basement window – in order to avoid detection of a loaded handgun he was carrying – and had subsequently shot and killed the much-liked Mayor George Moscone. He had also made a detour to Supervisor Harvey Milk’s office, and shot him five times before fleeing the scene of the crime.
Dan White was an uptight and emotionally unstable minor politician, whose life and life-style were identified with by the blue collar segment of working-class San Francisco. These were the firemen, the police, and the city construction workers who could identify with White’s anger – even if it was rooted in an emotionally-damaged man. Harvey Milk was the first openly gay Supervisor in San Francisco, and it is not too much of a stretch to conclude that not all residents of the San Francisco bay area were in accordance with the gay constituency of their city. These were the “family-oriented,” white-Christian, heteros-in-denial segment of San Francisco that abhorred the rowdy, untamed, hedonistic, sex-driven lifestyle of the gay population of the city.
Prosecutor Tom Norman and District Attorney Joe Freitas cooked up what would later be termed the "Twinkie defense," which saved Dan White from a first-degree murder conviction – contending that White had eaten Twinkies that morning, which had affected his blood-sugar levels, which affected his behavior.
On May 21, 1979, White was sentenced to seven years for manslaughter, which sparked the White Night Riots – an enormous, violent demonstration by the gay community in response to the verdict. Of course the careers of Norman, Freitas and Police Chief Charles Gain were finished, and they were never heard from again. (Freitas died from lung cancer in Paris, April 2006 at the age of 66).
The Dan White prosecution sham was quite the scandal, and many felt it left a stain on the character of San Francisco. Yet the truth of the character of Dan White would eventually become painfully evident. He was paroled after five years of imprisonment, though California Corrections Officials feared that a murder might be attempted in retaliation for his crimes. He was thus secretly transported to Los Angeles where he served a year's parole. His release from parole also prompted another round of demonstrations, in which protesters publicly ate Twinkies. When White announced that he planned on returning to his hometown of San Francisco, Mayor Dianne Feinstein issued a public statement asking him not to return. But return he did, in an attempt to restore his former life. Unfortunately for White, his wife had little interest in any restoration, and his marriage soon fell apart.
On October 21, 1985, White committed suicide by running a garden hose from the exhaust pipe to the interior of his car, while Paddy Reilly’s “The Town I Loved So Well” played on the car's cassette player.
In May 1977, I decided to explore Europe. I stayed at the L’Université de la cité – a version of our Community Colleges – which set me back a whole five bucks per night. I remember lunch in the cafeteria at the college the day I arrived, finding it filled with mostly very angry Muslim students, which was quite unnerving. Combined with a very bad case of jet lag, the energy in the cafeteria turned me into a paranoid foreigner, and I spent the next eighteen hours shaking it off by walking endlessly and without direction in the City of Light, as a spring rain fell upon the city.
Soon, I telephoned Madame Bourdier, to whom Maxine Lockley had given me an introduction. Madame was a sixty-five-year-old widow whose husband had left her an apartment building for her retirement. She was utterly charming, and I dined with her on three occasions. I will never forget those meals – absolutely fabulous – from Aperitif-to-Soupe-to-Poisson-to-Salade-to-Dessert, all moistened with some very fine white wines.
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 foo
d. 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.”
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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.
Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef Page 21