The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier Read Online Free PDF Page B

pecuniary history. I do hope you will forgive me. And I wish you the best in finding your inspiration.”
    Thus dismissed, I thanked him for his time and retreated to my lair in the private dining room. I couldn’t help comparing Mansfield to Escoffier who had wanted to be a sculptor but was forced instead to apprentice in his uncle’s restaurant. Escoffier did not want to be a chef. But when forced to become one, he found both prosperity and happiness. Mansfield, who did want to be a chef, found neither.
    Mansfield hardly seemed the type to knife anyone. For all I knew, Kuchen had tried to reassign Mansfield to desserts, and his remark that “Kuchen should remember that I work with knives” was merely a way of saying he did entrées, not pastries.
    I decided not to worry about it.

11

    When dinner was called, I dallied for a few minutes in order to be the last person in. I deliberately took a seat at the opposite end from Scruggs, whose antics were getting under my skin.
    Kuchen said, “Mr. Barry Stiles, garde manger, has prepared Liptauer.”
    I couldn’t resist. I looked across the huge table at Scruggs. He silently mouthed the English name of the dish. Not being skilled at lip reading, I thought he said “cheese dip.”
    Turns out that’s what it was, although fancier than the ones sold on the grocery store aisle next to the Fritos.
    I didn’t bother looking this one up because I figured out most of the ingredients when Kuchen reviewed the offering for us after we had eaten it.
    “Mr. Stiles has demonstrated why even the simple tasks performed by the garde manger require skill. The quark was not allowed to come to room temperature before the mixing commenced, resulting in incorrect texture. The capers had not been thoroughly drained. The vinegar was obvious. He used too much paprika. It should be subtle, not overpowering.” He turned to face Stiles. “Perhaps you lack the palate for your position.”
    Stiles threw his toque on the table and stalked out of the room. Kuchen smiled. “Evidently, he lacks also the proper temperament. We will cease the training early today. Rest well. Tomorrow will be another demanding day.”
    “Tomorrow is the Sabbath,” said Scruggs.
    “Then I advise you to think of the scullery as your temple.”
    I had no intention of working the next day. I was anxious to get back to Old Town since Susannah had agreed to meet me at Dos Hermanas even though it was a Saturday and she had a date with Ice that evening.
    Unfortunately, Stiles caught me just as I was leaving. He was a high-strung kid with brown hair and hazel eyes.
    There was fire in those eyes. “I need to talk to you,” he said.
    “I’m in a bit of a hur—”
    “I’ve got the perfect symbol for your plate – a swastika!”
    “I’m sorry Kuchen spoke to you like that, but it really reflects on him, not you.”
    “He wasn’t made to look the fool in front of everyone.”
    “Neither were you,” I said, trying to calm him down. He was on the verge of an emotional meltdown. “Kuchen was the one who was rude and obnoxious. You showed great restraint in not replying.”
    “I’ll reply all right. I’ll get the bastard fired.”
    I didn’t think the garde manger could get the chef de cuisine fired, and even trying seemed like a bad idea. “Don’t do anything rash.”
    “I can do it,” he said. “I know something no one else here knows.”
    He gave me a fiendish smile and stomped out.

12

    Susannah’s brown eyes were even larger than normal. “M’Lanta? No wonder he’s a pot scrubber.”
    “Some people might call that a racist remark,” I noted.
    “It has nothing to do with race, Hubie. It has to do with names. You know any important and successful people named D’onoriffe or Shaquillian?”
    “How about Barack?”
    “That’s different. Barack is a traditional Kenyan name. And his father was an immigrant, so it’s not surprising he used a name from his home country. It’s like my grandfather. His