I took my Mobylette on two long trips. The first was a 3 day vacation that M. Caille gave me. I borrowed a tent and a knapsack from Mario’s brother and rode my bike to Chamonix. This involved a lot of pedaling to get uphill, and the road was not exactly friendly to two-wheelers. I had to share it with large trucks, it was two lanes, and there were plenty of exhaust-saturated tunnels.
I spent the entire three days camping along brooks, eating stuff I bought in the stores in downtown Chamonix. I would purchase bread from the Boulanger, cheese from the Fromager, fruit from the Epicier. It was sheer heaven. In Chamonix, I bought some really festering, smelly cheese wrapped in oak leaves. When I peeled back the leaves, there were a few maggots wiggling around in holes they had made for themselves. I walked back into the business and showed them the varmints. They said, “Tant mieux. C’est meilleur comme ça!” (Much better that way!) I extirpated the maggots and ate the cheese. It was, of course, delicious.
I hiked up into the mountains opposite La Mer de Glace, the largest glacier in Europe. Chamonix lay below me. There was no one. The day following my arrival, I left the path and hiked up a glacier. I just kept going, having no inkling of where I was except that the Mont Blanc was just opposite on the other side of the valley. When I came to the top of the glacier, I found that I had also reached the top of a ski slope complete with ski-lift which I rode back down to the bottom.
Following the path back down from my camping spot, I ran into a river tumbling over the rocks. Above the path, the river was full of garbage that had been tossed down the mountainside from a restaurant that serviced the skiers. I felt a little insecure crossing with a pack containing a tent on my back. So I threw the pack across. But I didn’t throw it hard enough. It landed in the river, smacking into one rock after another. I jumped in and followed it, leaping from boulder to boulder, descending as fast as possible without breaking my neck. I retrieved the pack, and continued my journey back to the motorbike.
The second trip on the motorbike was in winter. After the Aix-les-Bains stint was over, I took a bus with the Astoria laundryman to look for the next job in Megève, which was close to Chamonix. I went to the Chamber of Commerce, found a promising listing, and walked down the road to the Chalet Malakoff , which hired me on the spot. I had a job! So I flew back to the U.S., spent Christmas with my parents, then returned to Aix-les-Bains, where I had stashed my motorbike and belongings.
I shipped my stuff on the train, then rode the motorbike from Aix-les-Bains to Megève. It was December, so the temperatures were a little cool-ish. I lined my parka with newspaper to block the wind, then rode the fifty or so miles, dodging a few giant icicles in the tunnels.
Monday, September 20, 2010
21. HOTEL DES BAINS—Monsieur et Madame Tomas
Before Mario arrived to do the season, M. Caille’s brother-in-law, Monsieur Tomas served as chef. He was a nice enough man. I learned two dishes from him that I cook to this day.
The first evening I was to be his assistant, I arrived five minutes late. Incensed, he made a statement that I shall never forget: “L’heure, c’est l’heure. Avant l’heure, ce n’est pas l’heure. Apres l’heure, ce n’est pas l’heure. L’heure, c’est l’heure.” (Time is time. Before the time is not the time. After the time, is not the time. Time is time) A bit of working class poetry.
The two dishes that Monsieur Tomas taught me were pets de nonne (Nuns’ Farts) and Beignets d’Aubergine, Sauce Tomate. Pets de Nonne very much fit the French character. The French Revolution was all about depriving the aristocracy and the Roman Catholic Church the power that they had formerly wielded. For hundreds of years, many peasants had suffered or died at the hands of these two groups, so there is a lasting bitterness, especially among secular French. Of course, there are still many church-goers; they tend to be anti-semitic, anti-Muslim, and highly patriotic. Not too different from the U.S.
During the Terror, most of the aristocracy was beheaded, so the bitterness toward them is less strong as they ceased to exist (with a few scattered exceptions). But toward the church, and any organized religion for that matter, there is a feeling of suspicion. This explains why there has been so much controversy over Muslim clothing, especially facial coverings. Even the public wearing of the cross is controlled.
Pets de Nonne are, as one might expect, airy, sweet, and fruity. They are made of pâte à choux that is dropped by spoonfuls into hot oil. Cooked at around 350 °F, the farts turn themselves over as the portion submerged in oil loses weight and the fart flips. When crunchy, they are removed, slit open, filled with just a little jam, and powdered with confectioner’s sugar.
In addition to nuns’ farts, I also learned how to make beer battered eggplant slices and a basil-scented tomato sauce. This technique is transferable to a host of vegetables. One of my favorite vegetable beignets is made with zucchini blossoms and mozzarella. This, too, I serve with a tomato sauce.
Once Mario was on board, M. Tomas disappeared. His wife, however, Mme Tomas, continued to work with us. She was in charge of breakfast. Hôtel des Bains had about 30 rooms, so there was a lot of room service to do. Mme Tomas oversaw the boiled milk for café au lait, the cleanliness of the silver, the trays, etc.
Every afternoon, Mme Tomas made fromage blanc. This consisted of mixing an old batch of it into fresh milk and allowing it to ferment. She had her own cupboard behind screen doors so that flies couldn’t get to the food. Fromage blanc is just clabbered milk.
She also made crottes de chèvre. Literally translated, this means “goat turds.” And now for a segue. The French are not afraid of using highly graphic words in their speech. One of the first I learned to use was “con”. Literally, this means “cunt.” Con is used in everyday conversation by all socioeconomic classes. It is innately sexist, of course, like the word “hysterical” which refers to the same part of the body.
Another graphic word, used less in polite circles but highly favored among kids is dégueulace. Dégueler means, literally, to vomit. Anything that is déguelace is something worth vomiting over.
Anyway, back to the turds. These are typical French goat cheeses, made by adding bacteria to warm goat milk, separating the curds from the whey, scooping the curds into small perforated forms, allowing them to drain, then letting them age. Her cupboard was full of crottes in various stages of ripeness. After several months, these cheeses become rather hard. But they retain their goaty character, which comes from three fatty acids found in their milk: caproic, capric, and caprylic acids.
Mme Tomas also had Mario and me make a few extra things for her. One was apple sauce. We peeled and cored thousands of apples and cooked them into a purée that we sweetened. The apples were the classic Reinettes, which remind me of “Pink Ladies”.
One day, we received several cases of pig heads. We boiled these in large pots with vegetables, herbs and spices. Once cooked, we pulled the heads apart, chopping the snouts and cheeks into pieces. We concentrated the liquid, seasoned it, added vinegar, and then poured it over the pig head pieces that we had arranged in molds. When cold, we had Fromage de Tête, or Head Cheese. This became one of my favorite foods. Not even a year later, I was visiting my German Aunt and Uncle in Trier. Tante Maria took me out to the fancy restaurant across from the train station and I ordered the cheapest item on the menu (as I was trained to do) which turned out to be head cheese (Kopf Käse). Tante Maria was amazed. “You like that??”, she asked.
Years later, that is, about 25 years later, I would put head cheese sandwiches in my daughter Linnea’s school lunches. She was very happy to eat it. One day, a friend said to her, “Do you know what is in head cheese?” Linnea responded, “No”. Her friend said “Pig’s head!” Linnea never touched it again.
The first evening I was to be his assistant, I arrived five minutes late. Incensed, he made a statement that I shall never forget: “L’heure, c’est l’heure. Avant l’heure, ce n’est pas l’heure. Apres l’heure, ce n’est pas l’heure. L’heure, c’est l’heure.” (Time is time. Before the time is not the time. After the time, is not the time. Time is time) A bit of working class poetry.
The two dishes that Monsieur Tomas taught me were pets de nonne (Nuns’ Farts) and Beignets d’Aubergine, Sauce Tomate. Pets de Nonne very much fit the French character. The French Revolution was all about depriving the aristocracy and the Roman Catholic Church the power that they had formerly wielded. For hundreds of years, many peasants had suffered or died at the hands of these two groups, so there is a lasting bitterness, especially among secular French. Of course, there are still many church-goers; they tend to be anti-semitic, anti-Muslim, and highly patriotic. Not too different from the U.S.
During the Terror, most of the aristocracy was beheaded, so the bitterness toward them is less strong as they ceased to exist (with a few scattered exceptions). But toward the church, and any organized religion for that matter, there is a feeling of suspicion. This explains why there has been so much controversy over Muslim clothing, especially facial coverings. Even the public wearing of the cross is controlled.
Pets de Nonne are, as one might expect, airy, sweet, and fruity. They are made of pâte à choux that is dropped by spoonfuls into hot oil. Cooked at around 350 °F, the farts turn themselves over as the portion submerged in oil loses weight and the fart flips. When crunchy, they are removed, slit open, filled with just a little jam, and powdered with confectioner’s sugar.
In addition to nuns’ farts, I also learned how to make beer battered eggplant slices and a basil-scented tomato sauce. This technique is transferable to a host of vegetables. One of my favorite vegetable beignets is made with zucchini blossoms and mozzarella. This, too, I serve with a tomato sauce.
Once Mario was on board, M. Tomas disappeared. His wife, however, Mme Tomas, continued to work with us. She was in charge of breakfast. Hôtel des Bains had about 30 rooms, so there was a lot of room service to do. Mme Tomas oversaw the boiled milk for café au lait, the cleanliness of the silver, the trays, etc.
Every afternoon, Mme Tomas made fromage blanc. This consisted of mixing an old batch of it into fresh milk and allowing it to ferment. She had her own cupboard behind screen doors so that flies couldn’t get to the food. Fromage blanc is just clabbered milk.
She also made crottes de chèvre. Literally translated, this means “goat turds.” And now for a segue. The French are not afraid of using highly graphic words in their speech. One of the first I learned to use was “con”. Literally, this means “cunt.” Con is used in everyday conversation by all socioeconomic classes. It is innately sexist, of course, like the word “hysterical” which refers to the same part of the body.
Another graphic word, used less in polite circles but highly favored among kids is dégueulace. Dégueler means, literally, to vomit. Anything that is déguelace is something worth vomiting over.
Anyway, back to the turds. These are typical French goat cheeses, made by adding bacteria to warm goat milk, separating the curds from the whey, scooping the curds into small perforated forms, allowing them to drain, then letting them age. Her cupboard was full of crottes in various stages of ripeness. After several months, these cheeses become rather hard. But they retain their goaty character, which comes from three fatty acids found in their milk: caproic, capric, and caprylic acids.
Mme Tomas also had Mario and me make a few extra things for her. One was apple sauce. We peeled and cored thousands of apples and cooked them into a purée that we sweetened. The apples were the classic Reinettes, which remind me of “Pink Ladies”.
One day, we received several cases of pig heads. We boiled these in large pots with vegetables, herbs and spices. Once cooked, we pulled the heads apart, chopping the snouts and cheeks into pieces. We concentrated the liquid, seasoned it, added vinegar, and then poured it over the pig head pieces that we had arranged in molds. When cold, we had Fromage de Tête, or Head Cheese. This became one of my favorite foods. Not even a year later, I was visiting my German Aunt and Uncle in Trier. Tante Maria took me out to the fancy restaurant across from the train station and I ordered the cheapest item on the menu (as I was trained to do) which turned out to be head cheese (Kopf Käse). Tante Maria was amazed. “You like that??”, she asked.
Years later, that is, about 25 years later, I would put head cheese sandwiches in my daughter Linnea’s school lunches. She was very happy to eat it. One day, a friend said to her, “Do you know what is in head cheese?” Linnea responded, “No”. Her friend said “Pig’s head!” Linnea never touched it again.
20. HOTEL DES BAINS—Affaire Steak and Other Misadventures
Mario, being young like me, was an optimist—sometimes to the point of making mistakes. One day, M. Caille brought a big, juicy steak and asked him to cook it for his lunch. “Bleu, s’il te plaît”. (Blue, please) Blue is less cooked than saignant (bleeding). Mario assigned me the task. I had never cooked a steak before. I knew how to cook bavette, which is skirt steak, the muscle that holds the inner diaphragm so the lungs function properly. This is the same cut that is used to make fajitas.
I cooked it the same way: put a little olive oil in the skillet, season the steak, cook on one side and flip. I knew at least some of the principles. At that time, I did not know about the two schools of thought in meat cookery. One school postulates that meat is essentially made of tiny balloons and that seasoning meat before cooking it causes osmosis and the loss of juices through the meat cells’ semipermeable membranes. The second school posits that meat should never be stabbed with a fork but manipulated only with tongs. Furthermore, because meat contains globular proteins, it is important to saisir la viande or “surprise it with heat”.
Unfortunately, on this occasion, I followed the third school, which is of the devil. I cooked the meat until it was dark brown and case-hardened on one side while barely kissing it with flame on the other. Of course, I presented the pretty side face up, but when M. Caille sank his knife into the steak and discovered the tough, desiccated underside, he flew into a rage.
“I do not pay you to farm out my lunch to that fucking American!” he stormed. Whereupon, he picked up a long ham-slicing knife and whipped it across the kitchen. It collided with a very expensive bottle of Moulin a Vent from M. Caille’s own winery. This resulted in a red explosion, wine splattering everywhere, along with shards of glass.
I don’t remember if this incident came before or after the wayward steak. Doesn’t matter. It couldn’t have been avoided.
The reason is, I’m an American. I was raised in an American home. In August, when they were ripe, my Mom would serve delicious cantaloupe complete with balls of vanilla ice cream nestled in their seedless cavities.
Not according to M. Caille. One glorious Sunday, during the peak of service, Mario said, “Va mettre des glaçons dans les melons”. (Put some ice cubes in the melons). OK, glaçon is not quite glace, and I missed the subtlety. Glaçon means ice cube. Glace means either ice cream, ice, or mirror.
So, being human, I searched my memory banks for the closest match. Why, of course! Vanilla ice cream. What else?
So I put vanilla ice cream in the Melons de Charentes, those gorgeous, perfectly spherical melons with their very subtle aromas and flavors. The waiter, one of the Moroccans, poured Grand Marnier on top of the vanilla ice cream balls nestled in their melon halves, and off it went to the dining room.
Wham! The door to the kitchen flew open. “Who is the moron who put vanilla ice cream in my melons?” Mario pointed at me. Monsieur Caille turned his beet red visage toward me. “Where do you come from? Planete des Sauvages?” he screamed. “Why would any sane person ruin the delicate flavor of these melons with the coarse flavors of vanilla ice cream??”
Sigh.
I cooked it the same way: put a little olive oil in the skillet, season the steak, cook on one side and flip. I knew at least some of the principles. At that time, I did not know about the two schools of thought in meat cookery. One school postulates that meat is essentially made of tiny balloons and that seasoning meat before cooking it causes osmosis and the loss of juices through the meat cells’ semipermeable membranes. The second school posits that meat should never be stabbed with a fork but manipulated only with tongs. Furthermore, because meat contains globular proteins, it is important to saisir la viande or “surprise it with heat”.
Unfortunately, on this occasion, I followed the third school, which is of the devil. I cooked the meat until it was dark brown and case-hardened on one side while barely kissing it with flame on the other. Of course, I presented the pretty side face up, but when M. Caille sank his knife into the steak and discovered the tough, desiccated underside, he flew into a rage.
“I do not pay you to farm out my lunch to that fucking American!” he stormed. Whereupon, he picked up a long ham-slicing knife and whipped it across the kitchen. It collided with a very expensive bottle of Moulin a Vent from M. Caille’s own winery. This resulted in a red explosion, wine splattering everywhere, along with shards of glass.
I don’t remember if this incident came before or after the wayward steak. Doesn’t matter. It couldn’t have been avoided.
The reason is, I’m an American. I was raised in an American home. In August, when they were ripe, my Mom would serve delicious cantaloupe complete with balls of vanilla ice cream nestled in their seedless cavities.
Not according to M. Caille. One glorious Sunday, during the peak of service, Mario said, “Va mettre des glaçons dans les melons”. (Put some ice cubes in the melons). OK, glaçon is not quite glace, and I missed the subtlety. Glaçon means ice cube. Glace means either ice cream, ice, or mirror.
So, being human, I searched my memory banks for the closest match. Why, of course! Vanilla ice cream. What else?
So I put vanilla ice cream in the Melons de Charentes, those gorgeous, perfectly spherical melons with their very subtle aromas and flavors. The waiter, one of the Moroccans, poured Grand Marnier on top of the vanilla ice cream balls nestled in their melon halves, and off it went to the dining room.
Wham! The door to the kitchen flew open. “Who is the moron who put vanilla ice cream in my melons?” Mario pointed at me. Monsieur Caille turned his beet red visage toward me. “Where do you come from? Planete des Sauvages?” he screamed. “Why would any sane person ruin the delicate flavor of these melons with the coarse flavors of vanilla ice cream??”
Sigh.
19. HOTEL DES BAINS--MARIO
I had arrived too early in the season, so I spent a week or two hiking up Mont Le Revard, which towers over the village of Aix-les-Bains. Every day, I would hike up the mountain through the woods. Every evening, I would visit a Patisserie and eat my favorite things: apple tart made very simply—just on a crust made of pâte à tarte. I also enjoyed Baba au Rhum, which was made of a yeasty cake soaked in rum flavored sugar syrup, glazed with apricot jam and garnished with whipped cream. I was glorying in nature during the day and in the best of the French pastries in the evening.
One day, Mario finally arrived. He drove up to the hotel in a VW and he got out and walked into the kitchen of the hotel, wearing a cowboy hat and sporting sideburns. I think he was imitating Clint Eastwood in For a Few Dollars More.
Anyway, Mario was the stud. He had a girlfriend whom he screwed every afternoon and he was also betrothed to a nice young pied noir whose parents had left Algeria only a few years before. Already, Mario was following the male French pattern: wife and kids to keep up appearances while having “sky rockets in flight, afternoon delight” with the girlfriend.
The first few days that I was working with Mario, I was still hiking up the mountain. We were prepping the kitchen, but the hotel wasn’t yet open. One afternoon, on one of my excursions, I kept seeing small snails. I decided to pick them and bring them back to the hotel and ask Mario how to prep them.
Mario took one look at the snails in the bucket and he snorted, “Mais, ce ne sont que des petits gris!” “This are only the little grey ones!” He took a bottle of alcohol used for lighting the stove, poured it over them and lit. The bucket exploded in flame and the little grey snails exploded like popcorn and sizzling and hissing. I never did learn how to prepare snails.
Mario loved to tease. Mario taught me a lot. He had me buy two books used by young French cooks intent on earning their CAP or Certificat d’Aptitude Professionel. He would lecture me about all sorts of things and he had me try things.
One day, he had me sauté the Coq au Vin, a Bourgeois dish made of rooster (not chicken) marinated overnight in wine with vegetables. The marinade, being acidic, disintegrates collagen, the structural protein that causes toughness; de rigueur with roosters who spend their lives experiencing afternoon delight.
After full marination, you have to drain the meat, dry it, then sauté it in oil. Even if it’s dry, the meat spits. You have to use lots of oil so it holds the heat and browns the meat efficiently; this leads to geysers of potentially harmful hot fat.
I put on sunglasses (to protect my contacts), tied rags to my arms, and fried the coq. Of course, this provided fodder for his teasing machine. “Voila l’Americain. Ce n’est pas l’individu qui s’est posé sur la lune!” “Look at this American. He’s not the one who landed on the moon!”
In the very beginning of the season, before the crush of tourists had arrived, we did some fun things together. One day, M. Caille asked us to go pick cherries at his farm. This was up on the mountain opposite M. Revard, high up enough that we could see the top of Mont Blanc on the horizon. The grove of cherries was tended by an old man. We sat in the trees all day, picking cherries. One for the bucket. One for me… After stuffing ourselves to the point of falling out of the trees from shear lethargy, we descended our arboreal habitats and the old man extricated a dirt-encrusted wine bottle from under the floorboards of the tool shed. We sat around and the three of us drank a bottle of vin blanc, pétillant. Drier than a Vouvray, but perfect for the occasion.
On another occasion, we were in the kitchen. Mario brought me a large crepe, about 3/16 inch thick. He explained that it was far, a thick crepe made in Normandy. He said, “Eat it!” Of course, this aroused my suspicion. I cut into and found a string on the inside. A trick cooks like to play on apprentices.
Mario arranged for us to make 5 Saumon en Bellevue for a friend’s restaurant. This involved poaching five salmons, removing the skin, making an aspic, cutting vegetables prettily, then making pretty pictures out of vegetables on the surface of the salmon. These were sealed in place with an aspic. I suspect we did a good job, although I don’t rightly remember, as my memory was fogged by our payment—all the champagne that we could eat. How we made it back safely to Aix-les-Bains is a mystery, and possibly a miracle.
I had purchased a Mobylette or motorbike. So I was often sent to Hotel Astoria, which was only two blocks away to get something from their much larger kitchen. The Hotel Astoria was enormous. It had a grandiose entrance. During the years before WWI, it was the destination of potentates from the Middle East. They would arrive with their harems, pitch a tent inside their sumptuous headquarters, and light fires.
When I lived there, Aix-les-Bains reflected the much leaner economy, and most visitors were middle-class, getting mud plasters and body rubs—all on Social Security. Too bad we Americans squander our money on corporate welfare and gas wars rather than investing in our own people.
One day, I was sent to Hotel Astoria. Mario said, “Va me chercher une échelle pour monter les blancs d’oeuf; et aussi un cageot de patates.” (Get me a ladder to climb the egg whites; and also a crate of potatoes). Of course, I fully understood the double-entendre; so, I just repeated it to the chef at the Astoria for fun. Monter is one of those French verbs that has multiple meanings. It means to climb, it means to screw, it means to beat egg whites to a foam…
One day, Mario finally arrived. He drove up to the hotel in a VW and he got out and walked into the kitchen of the hotel, wearing a cowboy hat and sporting sideburns. I think he was imitating Clint Eastwood in For a Few Dollars More.
Anyway, Mario was the stud. He had a girlfriend whom he screwed every afternoon and he was also betrothed to a nice young pied noir whose parents had left Algeria only a few years before. Already, Mario was following the male French pattern: wife and kids to keep up appearances while having “sky rockets in flight, afternoon delight” with the girlfriend.
The first few days that I was working with Mario, I was still hiking up the mountain. We were prepping the kitchen, but the hotel wasn’t yet open. One afternoon, on one of my excursions, I kept seeing small snails. I decided to pick them and bring them back to the hotel and ask Mario how to prep them.
Mario took one look at the snails in the bucket and he snorted, “Mais, ce ne sont que des petits gris!” “This are only the little grey ones!” He took a bottle of alcohol used for lighting the stove, poured it over them and lit. The bucket exploded in flame and the little grey snails exploded like popcorn and sizzling and hissing. I never did learn how to prepare snails.
Mario loved to tease. Mario taught me a lot. He had me buy two books used by young French cooks intent on earning their CAP or Certificat d’Aptitude Professionel. He would lecture me about all sorts of things and he had me try things.
One day, he had me sauté the Coq au Vin, a Bourgeois dish made of rooster (not chicken) marinated overnight in wine with vegetables. The marinade, being acidic, disintegrates collagen, the structural protein that causes toughness; de rigueur with roosters who spend their lives experiencing afternoon delight.
After full marination, you have to drain the meat, dry it, then sauté it in oil. Even if it’s dry, the meat spits. You have to use lots of oil so it holds the heat and browns the meat efficiently; this leads to geysers of potentially harmful hot fat.
I put on sunglasses (to protect my contacts), tied rags to my arms, and fried the coq. Of course, this provided fodder for his teasing machine. “Voila l’Americain. Ce n’est pas l’individu qui s’est posé sur la lune!” “Look at this American. He’s not the one who landed on the moon!”
In the very beginning of the season, before the crush of tourists had arrived, we did some fun things together. One day, M. Caille asked us to go pick cherries at his farm. This was up on the mountain opposite M. Revard, high up enough that we could see the top of Mont Blanc on the horizon. The grove of cherries was tended by an old man. We sat in the trees all day, picking cherries. One for the bucket. One for me… After stuffing ourselves to the point of falling out of the trees from shear lethargy, we descended our arboreal habitats and the old man extricated a dirt-encrusted wine bottle from under the floorboards of the tool shed. We sat around and the three of us drank a bottle of vin blanc, pétillant. Drier than a Vouvray, but perfect for the occasion.
On another occasion, we were in the kitchen. Mario brought me a large crepe, about 3/16 inch thick. He explained that it was far, a thick crepe made in Normandy. He said, “Eat it!” Of course, this aroused my suspicion. I cut into and found a string on the inside. A trick cooks like to play on apprentices.
Mario arranged for us to make 5 Saumon en Bellevue for a friend’s restaurant. This involved poaching five salmons, removing the skin, making an aspic, cutting vegetables prettily, then making pretty pictures out of vegetables on the surface of the salmon. These were sealed in place with an aspic. I suspect we did a good job, although I don’t rightly remember, as my memory was fogged by our payment—all the champagne that we could eat. How we made it back safely to Aix-les-Bains is a mystery, and possibly a miracle.
I had purchased a Mobylette or motorbike. So I was often sent to Hotel Astoria, which was only two blocks away to get something from their much larger kitchen. The Hotel Astoria was enormous. It had a grandiose entrance. During the years before WWI, it was the destination of potentates from the Middle East. They would arrive with their harems, pitch a tent inside their sumptuous headquarters, and light fires.
When I lived there, Aix-les-Bains reflected the much leaner economy, and most visitors were middle-class, getting mud plasters and body rubs—all on Social Security. Too bad we Americans squander our money on corporate welfare and gas wars rather than investing in our own people.
One day, I was sent to Hotel Astoria. Mario said, “Va me chercher une échelle pour monter les blancs d’oeuf; et aussi un cageot de patates.” (Get me a ladder to climb the egg whites; and also a crate of potatoes). Of course, I fully understood the double-entendre; so, I just repeated it to the chef at the Astoria for fun. Monter is one of those French verbs that has multiple meanings. It means to climb, it means to screw, it means to beat egg whites to a foam…
18. HOTEL DES BAINS—Les Maroccains
The Moroccans. They were kids just like me. I had arrived in Aix-les-Bains in March, 1970. I got off the train and M. Caille drove me to his hotel, Hôtel-des-Bains.
M. Caille, probably in his 50s, a rotund man with red face and the usual broken blood vessels on the surface of his nose, met me at the train station. He was smoking one of those awful cigarette-cigar hybrids.
He drove me to the hotel in his DS-19, the apex of French engineering. Those cars had no springs. You got in them and they hissed at you, as their sleek bodies glided over cobble-stoned streets while other lesser vehicles moved as much up, down, and sideways as they did forward.
We entered through the dining room. A young man with curly black hair waved cheerfully. He was up on a ladder, cleaning the front windows. M Caille said, “He’s Moroccan. I have lots of them working for me. They come from a very disorganized country.”
M. Caille represented the prevailing French attitude toward most of their colonial subjects—to be treated like children, with amusement and tolerance. Such an attitude has led to some pretty spectacular uprisings—such as in Senegal, when thousands were massacred or more recently when Algerian students burnt thousands of cars all over France.
We walked into the empty restaurant of the Hôtel des Bains, closed for another month. I had arrived a month early, not having read M. Caille’s letter properly. He had said, “Above all, go to the embassy first to get your contract approved before leaving the United States.” Instead, not reading the details but so anxious to embark on this adventure, I took off for France. When I arrived, I stayed with friends in Roubaix who phoned M. Caille.
He responded that I had jumped the gun and therefore he wasn’t responsible for my foolishness. So, according to him, I could now turn around and return to the U.S.
My friends weren’t about to let this happen and they insisted he do something on his end. Since he had a lot of connections in high places, he worked it out and I took the train south.
After the initial greeting, M. Caille left me with the Moroccans, who took me up to my room, a guest room on the second floor. I was to stay there for a couple weeks until my room located in the servant quarters at the Astoria, was ready. The Hotel Astoria was a very large building from the Belle Epoque, when Europe was flush with money, before it self-immolated during the First World War.
We got in the dinky elevator—my two Moroccan friends and I—and rode it up two floors. One of them farted loudly. I responded, “Quelqu’un a dit quelquechose?” Our friendship was sealed.
My Moroccan friends lived in the basement of the hotel. Their beds were all in one room, and they shared a “Turkish toilet/shower”. Like most Turkish toilets, it consisted of a hole in the floor, but there was a showerhead in the ceiling, so you could accomplish a lot in there. Of course, you’d probably want to use some sort of aromatic soap.
One day, my friends received a small cardboard box in the mail. In it were lovely white flowers, trumpet shaped. I now know that these were the flowers of the Belladonna plant, and that the plant belongs to the Solanaceae, a plant family noted for its ability to produce all sorts of alkaloids. The capsaicin of chilies, nicotine of tobacco, the solanine of potatoes, are all alkaloids produced by members of this plant family.
They invited me to share tea with them. Now, in the French culture, all sorts of teas are made with all sorts of plants. This is because, historically, those bad old British were often blocking the “English channel” with their navy, and making it difficult to import foodstuffs. Besides, the British controlled the tea business, so why should the French support the lifestyles of the British? So, they preserved their herbal habits.
To this day, the French still enjoy a variety of teas, the most popular being tilleul (made with the leaves of the Linden tree), verveine, and chamomile. Tilleul was made famous by Marcel Proust in his, A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, in which he describes how the aromas and flavors of tilleul combined with the buttery yumminess of Madeleines reminds him of his favorite aunt.
So, the Moroccans. They made a pot of Belladonna Tea. Belladonna, by the way, means “beautiful woman,” but this is unrelated to the story. Being a skeptic (I’m named Thomas after all), I didn’t believe this stuff could have any effect whatsoever. So, I drank five cups plus the dregs. I suppose they were somewhat bemused, and they wanted to see what would happen. Ha Ha. A science experiment with an American subject!
It was the afternoon, so we descended into their basement sleeping quarters. I was feeling drowsy, so I lay down on a bed. Pretty soon, I had to pee. I got up, but couldn’t walk. My feet would not lift off the ground. So, well, I’m too embarrassed to say what happened next.
Apparently, according to some of the staff, I then stood against a wall all evening and cooked, calling out to others for food from the storage room, etc. I have only a vague memory of this. Fortunately, the chef, Mario, who was my age, covered for me, telling M. Caille that I was indisposed and that they had helped me back to my room at the Astoria Hotel.
At 11 PM, when my shift was over, Christian, one of the waiters, helped me back to the Astoria. It was dark and I had to take the servants’ circular staircase. I stumbled over every step. Christian dropped me off at my room on the 8th floor and left.
However, there he was, sitting on a chair in the corner! I walked toward him. He vanished. Then I walked toward him sitting in another corner. Once again, poof! Then I looked out my window, which was directly over the gabled roof of the balcony below me. A decorative ball on a spike morphed into an old man’s face, and I screamed in terror and jumped onto my bed.
The next day, I woke up with one contact lens still in one eye (you didn’t do stuff like that with the early contacts), and one lens in the middle of the floor.
I came down to Hôtel des Bains and found out that one of my Moroccan friends had been killed. Apparently, they were hanging around outside the hotel and saw a revolver sitting on the front seat of a customer’s car. They opened the door, took out the revolver and one of them pointed it at his own head. The other pushed the revolver away and it discharged into the fellow standing behind. He died instantly.
We had a funeral a couple days later. On the way to the cemetery, Mr. Caille said, “J’en ai marre de ces zebres.” Translated, this means “I’m tired of these zebras.” This was a racist phrase used by the pieds noirs, the French who lived in Algeria and Morocco.
In France, a potwasher is called a plongeur or diver. This name comes from the 19th century when pots, pans, and dishes were dumped into large basins and the washers stood in the basins and took a bath with the pots, pans, etc. Doesn’t sound too sanitary, but that’s the history of the name.
Our plongeur who stood in front of a sink, obviously, worked with us for most of the season. Until that fateful night.
Mario, the chef, whom you will learn about in a bit, liked to tease me. Sometimes, I would be out in the courtyard cleaning green beans. He would get up on the roof and pour water on it so the water would splash onto me. Mario was my age, and I was an easy target.
That fateful night, Mario decided to make me dance. So he sloshed a little alcohol on the floor around my feet and lit it. Ha Ha.
The plongeur decided that this was too much fun. So he grabbed the bottle and decided to up the conflagration by squeezing the plastic bottle while holding a lighted torch in front of it. The bottle exploded, he turned into a living torch, and my left leg also enflamed.
The plongeur ended up in the hospital for a few weeks.
My pants did not extend all the way down. There was a two inch gap between my pants. The skin burned. But I was too ashamed, so I didn’t let on.
For two days, I came to work as if nothing was wrong. On the third day, I could no longer stand due to the pain. So I ended up going to the clinic to get it cleaned and bandaged; it cost me nothing. This was my first experience with the fantastic French medical system.
M. Caille, probably in his 50s, a rotund man with red face and the usual broken blood vessels on the surface of his nose, met me at the train station. He was smoking one of those awful cigarette-cigar hybrids.
He drove me to the hotel in his DS-19, the apex of French engineering. Those cars had no springs. You got in them and they hissed at you, as their sleek bodies glided over cobble-stoned streets while other lesser vehicles moved as much up, down, and sideways as they did forward.
We entered through the dining room. A young man with curly black hair waved cheerfully. He was up on a ladder, cleaning the front windows. M Caille said, “He’s Moroccan. I have lots of them working for me. They come from a very disorganized country.”
M. Caille represented the prevailing French attitude toward most of their colonial subjects—to be treated like children, with amusement and tolerance. Such an attitude has led to some pretty spectacular uprisings—such as in Senegal, when thousands were massacred or more recently when Algerian students burnt thousands of cars all over France.
We walked into the empty restaurant of the Hôtel des Bains, closed for another month. I had arrived a month early, not having read M. Caille’s letter properly. He had said, “Above all, go to the embassy first to get your contract approved before leaving the United States.” Instead, not reading the details but so anxious to embark on this adventure, I took off for France. When I arrived, I stayed with friends in Roubaix who phoned M. Caille.
He responded that I had jumped the gun and therefore he wasn’t responsible for my foolishness. So, according to him, I could now turn around and return to the U.S.
My friends weren’t about to let this happen and they insisted he do something on his end. Since he had a lot of connections in high places, he worked it out and I took the train south.
After the initial greeting, M. Caille left me with the Moroccans, who took me up to my room, a guest room on the second floor. I was to stay there for a couple weeks until my room located in the servant quarters at the Astoria, was ready. The Hotel Astoria was a very large building from the Belle Epoque, when Europe was flush with money, before it self-immolated during the First World War.
We got in the dinky elevator—my two Moroccan friends and I—and rode it up two floors. One of them farted loudly. I responded, “Quelqu’un a dit quelquechose?” Our friendship was sealed.
My Moroccan friends lived in the basement of the hotel. Their beds were all in one room, and they shared a “Turkish toilet/shower”. Like most Turkish toilets, it consisted of a hole in the floor, but there was a showerhead in the ceiling, so you could accomplish a lot in there. Of course, you’d probably want to use some sort of aromatic soap.
One day, my friends received a small cardboard box in the mail. In it were lovely white flowers, trumpet shaped. I now know that these were the flowers of the Belladonna plant, and that the plant belongs to the Solanaceae, a plant family noted for its ability to produce all sorts of alkaloids. The capsaicin of chilies, nicotine of tobacco, the solanine of potatoes, are all alkaloids produced by members of this plant family.
They invited me to share tea with them. Now, in the French culture, all sorts of teas are made with all sorts of plants. This is because, historically, those bad old British were often blocking the “English channel” with their navy, and making it difficult to import foodstuffs. Besides, the British controlled the tea business, so why should the French support the lifestyles of the British? So, they preserved their herbal habits.
To this day, the French still enjoy a variety of teas, the most popular being tilleul (made with the leaves of the Linden tree), verveine, and chamomile. Tilleul was made famous by Marcel Proust in his, A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, in which he describes how the aromas and flavors of tilleul combined with the buttery yumminess of Madeleines reminds him of his favorite aunt.
So, the Moroccans. They made a pot of Belladonna Tea. Belladonna, by the way, means “beautiful woman,” but this is unrelated to the story. Being a skeptic (I’m named Thomas after all), I didn’t believe this stuff could have any effect whatsoever. So, I drank five cups plus the dregs. I suppose they were somewhat bemused, and they wanted to see what would happen. Ha Ha. A science experiment with an American subject!
It was the afternoon, so we descended into their basement sleeping quarters. I was feeling drowsy, so I lay down on a bed. Pretty soon, I had to pee. I got up, but couldn’t walk. My feet would not lift off the ground. So, well, I’m too embarrassed to say what happened next.
Apparently, according to some of the staff, I then stood against a wall all evening and cooked, calling out to others for food from the storage room, etc. I have only a vague memory of this. Fortunately, the chef, Mario, who was my age, covered for me, telling M. Caille that I was indisposed and that they had helped me back to my room at the Astoria Hotel.
At 11 PM, when my shift was over, Christian, one of the waiters, helped me back to the Astoria. It was dark and I had to take the servants’ circular staircase. I stumbled over every step. Christian dropped me off at my room on the 8th floor and left.
However, there he was, sitting on a chair in the corner! I walked toward him. He vanished. Then I walked toward him sitting in another corner. Once again, poof! Then I looked out my window, which was directly over the gabled roof of the balcony below me. A decorative ball on a spike morphed into an old man’s face, and I screamed in terror and jumped onto my bed.
The next day, I woke up with one contact lens still in one eye (you didn’t do stuff like that with the early contacts), and one lens in the middle of the floor.
I came down to Hôtel des Bains and found out that one of my Moroccan friends had been killed. Apparently, they were hanging around outside the hotel and saw a revolver sitting on the front seat of a customer’s car. They opened the door, took out the revolver and one of them pointed it at his own head. The other pushed the revolver away and it discharged into the fellow standing behind. He died instantly.
We had a funeral a couple days later. On the way to the cemetery, Mr. Caille said, “J’en ai marre de ces zebres.” Translated, this means “I’m tired of these zebras.” This was a racist phrase used by the pieds noirs, the French who lived in Algeria and Morocco.
In France, a potwasher is called a plongeur or diver. This name comes from the 19th century when pots, pans, and dishes were dumped into large basins and the washers stood in the basins and took a bath with the pots, pans, etc. Doesn’t sound too sanitary, but that’s the history of the name.
Our plongeur who stood in front of a sink, obviously, worked with us for most of the season. Until that fateful night.
Mario, the chef, whom you will learn about in a bit, liked to tease me. Sometimes, I would be out in the courtyard cleaning green beans. He would get up on the roof and pour water on it so the water would splash onto me. Mario was my age, and I was an easy target.
That fateful night, Mario decided to make me dance. So he sloshed a little alcohol on the floor around my feet and lit it. Ha Ha.
The plongeur decided that this was too much fun. So he grabbed the bottle and decided to up the conflagration by squeezing the plastic bottle while holding a lighted torch in front of it. The bottle exploded, he turned into a living torch, and my left leg also enflamed.
The plongeur ended up in the hospital for a few weeks.
My pants did not extend all the way down. There was a two inch gap between my pants. The skin burned. But I was too ashamed, so I didn’t let on.
For two days, I came to work as if nothing was wrong. On the third day, I could no longer stand due to the pain. So I ended up going to the clinic to get it cleaned and bandaged; it cost me nothing. This was my first experience with the fantastic French medical system.
17. COMMANDER’S PALACE
I spent a lovely Christmas at home, feeling un-guilty. Sure, I had squandered thousands of dollars of my parents’ hard-earned money, but I knew where my future lay. I told myself, “Other students stay in school, feeling miserable and going through the motions. I have found my way!”
I took the bus south from Vermillion to New Orleans. Because I was not longer going to be in school, I had to have my physical in order to satisfy the Draft Board. I had a 242 lottery number, which in any urban part of the country would have meant “No Vietnam”, but in some parts of the country, especially the countryside, boys were being drafted up to the number 365. I wrote a paper and submitted to the Draft Board, proclaiming myself a Conscientious Objector. They replied, “Do your physical. Then we’ll read the paper.” I did the physical in New Orleans, and then later in Melbourne Village; both times, my urine came out positive for albumin, meaning that I had leaky kidneys. Apparently, leaky kidneys are not suitable for battle, so I was given a 4F.
The first day in New Orleans, I was walking down Bourbon Street, the sin capital of the U.S. (after Las Vegas, of course). A man walked up to me and asked if I would like to have dinner with him at his house. I replied, “Sure”. What was going through my head? I was thinking, “Gee, the locals sure are friendly.”
So, that evening, I went to his house. He made some little appetizer and then sat down next to me. I was reading Life Magazine, looking at pictures of the Miss America finalists. He moved closer and put his arm around me.
This was new. I had never approached anyone else in this way myself, but somehow, I knew what was going on. I said, “You know, I’m not gay.” He responded, “You know, I could have my way with you. But since I’m director of the Port of New Orleans, I won’t”. That was my first practical experience with gayness. Of course, I had never dated or even kissed a girl, so I was pretty much androgynous at that point.
I worked at Commander’s Palace from early January to early February. I had purchased a plane ticket for Luxemburg on Air Icelandic. During those four weeks, I received my first real dose of restaurant work. The restaurant had just passed into the ownership of the Brendan family, and there was some question whether they would employ me. However, they decided that since I had arrived, they would let me stay.
At that point in time, Commander’s Palace was a 1950s establishment. By this I mean that it relied on consumers more interested in drinking hard alcohol than in the food itself. Standards had slipped, and the restaurant was doing things that would never pass muster in any famous New Orleans establishment today.
For example, they sold hundreds of portions of Oysters Bienville and Oysters Rockefeller. These were made as follows: the shells were re-used. After every use, they were run through the dishwasher. The oysters were extricated from 1 gallon cans, not shucked. The sauces were glue. For example, the Oysters Bienville were made in large vats. Milk was brought to a boil and a corn starch slurry was stirred in. This was followed by curry powder and blocks of frozen tiny shrimp. I’m sure they tasted good, but I’m also sure the texture resembled glue.
The Oysters Rockefeller were made similarly, except frozen, chopped spinach was added, as was a bottle of Pernod to produce the requisite licorice flavor. When cooled, both sauces were piped onto the oysters, and sheetpans were stacked in reach-in refrigerators.
To order, the oysters were lined up in pie pans of rock salt and popped in a very hot oven. When just beginning to bubble, they were put under the broiler and served bubbling to the customer. I’m sure they were good, but I’ve made far better Oysters Rockefeller by saving the oyster liquor after shucking, sweating shallots in butter, using only a minimum of roux, heavy cream, and only fresh spinach.
Commander’s Palace also served Red Fish Almandine. These were the days before Paul Prudhomme, so Blackened Redfish was yet unknown. Actually, he didn’t make it popular until after he had left Commander’s Palace. Anyway, the fish was fried, not pan-fried, so the subtle textures were lost. Then, instead of a meuniere sauce made in the pan (which is de rigueur), the sauce was simply melted margarine mixed with artificial lemon juice, Tabasco, and Worcestershire Sauce. Dreadful.
Also on the menu was avocado stuffed with shrimp in mayonnaise that was popped under the broiler. I don’t remember what this tasted like. Upstairs in the prep kitchen, an old man boned out chicken thighs and drumsticks for a Chicken Marchand de Vin. Like so many fancy restaurants, Commander’s Palace used only gallon jug wines—a pity.
In the desserts area, an old black lady (who called me “long legs”, rolling her l’s and her eyes) made Crème Caramel and Bread Pudding with a devastatingly good hard sauce. All the old bread made its way into the Bread Pudding.
Although the restaurant was mediocre in quality (at that time), the employees were fantastic. I had never experienced such a family atmosphere, and the restaurant business, with its egalitarianism, where everyone talks to everyone, seemed like an earthly paradise to my unjaded, innocent eyes.
I did not regret leaving, however, because the next adventure beckoned so enticingly. Even though I have never been back to New Orleans, I loved the place—its people, its fetid aromas, its partying atmosphere. But I was determined to penetrate the world of Grande Cuisine. And in those days, the French were considered to be the culinary epicenter of the world.
I took the bus south from Vermillion to New Orleans. Because I was not longer going to be in school, I had to have my physical in order to satisfy the Draft Board. I had a 242 lottery number, which in any urban part of the country would have meant “No Vietnam”, but in some parts of the country, especially the countryside, boys were being drafted up to the number 365. I wrote a paper and submitted to the Draft Board, proclaiming myself a Conscientious Objector. They replied, “Do your physical. Then we’ll read the paper.” I did the physical in New Orleans, and then later in Melbourne Village; both times, my urine came out positive for albumin, meaning that I had leaky kidneys. Apparently, leaky kidneys are not suitable for battle, so I was given a 4F.
The first day in New Orleans, I was walking down Bourbon Street, the sin capital of the U.S. (after Las Vegas, of course). A man walked up to me and asked if I would like to have dinner with him at his house. I replied, “Sure”. What was going through my head? I was thinking, “Gee, the locals sure are friendly.”
So, that evening, I went to his house. He made some little appetizer and then sat down next to me. I was reading Life Magazine, looking at pictures of the Miss America finalists. He moved closer and put his arm around me.
This was new. I had never approached anyone else in this way myself, but somehow, I knew what was going on. I said, “You know, I’m not gay.” He responded, “You know, I could have my way with you. But since I’m director of the Port of New Orleans, I won’t”. That was my first practical experience with gayness. Of course, I had never dated or even kissed a girl, so I was pretty much androgynous at that point.
I worked at Commander’s Palace from early January to early February. I had purchased a plane ticket for Luxemburg on Air Icelandic. During those four weeks, I received my first real dose of restaurant work. The restaurant had just passed into the ownership of the Brendan family, and there was some question whether they would employ me. However, they decided that since I had arrived, they would let me stay.
At that point in time, Commander’s Palace was a 1950s establishment. By this I mean that it relied on consumers more interested in drinking hard alcohol than in the food itself. Standards had slipped, and the restaurant was doing things that would never pass muster in any famous New Orleans establishment today.
For example, they sold hundreds of portions of Oysters Bienville and Oysters Rockefeller. These were made as follows: the shells were re-used. After every use, they were run through the dishwasher. The oysters were extricated from 1 gallon cans, not shucked. The sauces were glue. For example, the Oysters Bienville were made in large vats. Milk was brought to a boil and a corn starch slurry was stirred in. This was followed by curry powder and blocks of frozen tiny shrimp. I’m sure they tasted good, but I’m also sure the texture resembled glue.
The Oysters Rockefeller were made similarly, except frozen, chopped spinach was added, as was a bottle of Pernod to produce the requisite licorice flavor. When cooled, both sauces were piped onto the oysters, and sheetpans were stacked in reach-in refrigerators.
To order, the oysters were lined up in pie pans of rock salt and popped in a very hot oven. When just beginning to bubble, they were put under the broiler and served bubbling to the customer. I’m sure they were good, but I’ve made far better Oysters Rockefeller by saving the oyster liquor after shucking, sweating shallots in butter, using only a minimum of roux, heavy cream, and only fresh spinach.
Commander’s Palace also served Red Fish Almandine. These were the days before Paul Prudhomme, so Blackened Redfish was yet unknown. Actually, he didn’t make it popular until after he had left Commander’s Palace. Anyway, the fish was fried, not pan-fried, so the subtle textures were lost. Then, instead of a meuniere sauce made in the pan (which is de rigueur), the sauce was simply melted margarine mixed with artificial lemon juice, Tabasco, and Worcestershire Sauce. Dreadful.
Also on the menu was avocado stuffed with shrimp in mayonnaise that was popped under the broiler. I don’t remember what this tasted like. Upstairs in the prep kitchen, an old man boned out chicken thighs and drumsticks for a Chicken Marchand de Vin. Like so many fancy restaurants, Commander’s Palace used only gallon jug wines—a pity.
In the desserts area, an old black lady (who called me “long legs”, rolling her l’s and her eyes) made Crème Caramel and Bread Pudding with a devastatingly good hard sauce. All the old bread made its way into the Bread Pudding.
Although the restaurant was mediocre in quality (at that time), the employees were fantastic. I had never experienced such a family atmosphere, and the restaurant business, with its egalitarianism, where everyone talks to everyone, seemed like an earthly paradise to my unjaded, innocent eyes.
I did not regret leaving, however, because the next adventure beckoned so enticingly. Even though I have never been back to New Orleans, I loved the place—its people, its fetid aromas, its partying atmosphere. But I was determined to penetrate the world of Grande Cuisine. And in those days, the French were considered to be the culinary epicenter of the world.
16. LEARNING AND LABOR
I finished high school in Vermillion. I skipped one year because the two programs didn’t jive, so my parents wanted me to stay what would have been my senior year at home, attending the University of South Dakota.
I was very lucky to have been connected with two very fine music teachers: Genevieve Truran (piano) and Jack Noble (organ.) Both of them taught me by example that good teachers are just about the finest people you will ever meet. Teachers change your life, for the good.
Miss Truran helped me to develop a critical musical ear, and later this combined with the teachings of others to make me more analytical. One of the transitions from childhood to adulthood is the development of an analytical mind and high standards. Good education develops it while minimizing cynicism. Much of that is through example. Sitting on a piano or organ bench right next to the teacher is about as good as education gets.
It was through the fact that Miss Truran had taught at Oberlin that I ended up going there. I asked her after one piano lesson, “What school should I attend?” I had not thought about this little detail one bit—like any teenager. She responded, “Oberlin.”
So I applied and was accepted. It cost a lot of money, and I suspect my father was not particularly keen on the expense--$4,000 per year! But I never heard him complain.
Once I got there, I felt like a fish out of water. It seemed like everyone was from a private school. The first night at Oberlin was eventful. It was raining (as always), and I was settling into my new room. My roommate was due sometime during the night. I had a new tape recorder and an electronic timer, so I recorded the sound of rain falling, part of the Toccata and Fugue in E-Flat Major (St. Anne), and the phrase, “Get Up, Get Up, or I’ll Kill You!” I set the timer and fell asleep. During the night, my new roommate moved in. In the morning, the timer goes off. There’s the sound of rain falling, the lovely sounds of the St. Anne, and then, those fateful words followed by a blood-curdling scream from a scantily clad young body plummeting out of the room. He moved across the corridor that day.
Oberlin did not suit me. I was not ready. The first semester, I took a very hard course of study: German, Calculus II, Organic Chemistry, and Urban Sociology. I loved the German and studied assiduously. But I gave up on the calculus and chemistry, never going to classes or taking the exams. I somehow slipped into a habit that some behaviorists refer to as “learned helplessness,” which caused me to enter a downward mental spiral.
I grasped at anything that would serve as a lifebuoy. During that first fall semester, I had to start thinking about what I was going to do for a Winter Term project. This was a one-month period sandwiched between the two semesters. During this month, students were expected to engage in projects that would help them develop professional interests that might lie outside of conventional coursework.
One day, while walking through the French Department, I saw an advertisement on the board outside Professor Henry Grubbs’ office. It was to spend the semester translating an old French food chemistry text. This was exciting.
That January, although I had flunked out of both Calculus II and Organic Chemistry (hard to pass if you don’t do the homework or attend class), I worked very hard on translating the book. In addition, I decided to cook five French meals using the Time-Life volume of Cooking of Provincial France, by Julia Child. Every single meal was a flop—in terms of timing. But I was thrilled. I would cook from 9 AM to 7 PM, serve the meal and feel totally refreshed. I remember making cream of mushroom soup and being enthralled with its flavor. I made a pork terrine by freezing pork, cutting it into bits, then smashing it with a hammer to get the requisite puréed texture.
I did all sorts of experimentation. Playing around with hard-crack sugar, coloring it, dropping it on an iced cake. I made meringues and sandwiched them with chocolate mousse. I really enjoyed moving away from written instructions. Here was my true calling. Although I was a fine musician, pretty good at following the written score, I could never leave the train tracks and tootle out into the pasture. But with cooking…
In contrast to the epiphanic Winter Term, the spring semester and fall semester of the following year were sheer misery. My self esteem had plummeted to close to zero. I was running on empty and burning oil. By the late fall, I had arranged another Winter Term, this time as an intern at Commander’s Palace in New Orleans. I don’t remember how I arranged this job, but I did. In any case, halfway through fall, I was ready to drop out.
However, I had this dream. I wanted to return to France, as that’s where I had been so happy. I still spoke fluent French and read quite well; I made a point to read French books—e.g., The Count of Monte Cristo, Gone with the Wind, and Around the World in 80 Days. So, I wrote a letter that I addressed to 25 hotels, asking them to take me on as an apprentice. I took the letter to the French department and asked them to proof-read it for me, then I typed each one out on a manual typewriter and mailed all 25 letters off.
Some time in November, I received 3 responses! One said “no”. One said “yes” but we don’t have any positions open right now. And one said ... “yes!!!” I was thrilled. All my problems were solved. The pathway to my new life lay before me, beckoning.
I was very lucky to have been connected with two very fine music teachers: Genevieve Truran (piano) and Jack Noble (organ.) Both of them taught me by example that good teachers are just about the finest people you will ever meet. Teachers change your life, for the good.
Miss Truran helped me to develop a critical musical ear, and later this combined with the teachings of others to make me more analytical. One of the transitions from childhood to adulthood is the development of an analytical mind and high standards. Good education develops it while minimizing cynicism. Much of that is through example. Sitting on a piano or organ bench right next to the teacher is about as good as education gets.
It was through the fact that Miss Truran had taught at Oberlin that I ended up going there. I asked her after one piano lesson, “What school should I attend?” I had not thought about this little detail one bit—like any teenager. She responded, “Oberlin.”
So I applied and was accepted. It cost a lot of money, and I suspect my father was not particularly keen on the expense--$4,000 per year! But I never heard him complain.
Once I got there, I felt like a fish out of water. It seemed like everyone was from a private school. The first night at Oberlin was eventful. It was raining (as always), and I was settling into my new room. My roommate was due sometime during the night. I had a new tape recorder and an electronic timer, so I recorded the sound of rain falling, part of the Toccata and Fugue in E-Flat Major (St. Anne), and the phrase, “Get Up, Get Up, or I’ll Kill You!” I set the timer and fell asleep. During the night, my new roommate moved in. In the morning, the timer goes off. There’s the sound of rain falling, the lovely sounds of the St. Anne, and then, those fateful words followed by a blood-curdling scream from a scantily clad young body plummeting out of the room. He moved across the corridor that day.
Oberlin did not suit me. I was not ready. The first semester, I took a very hard course of study: German, Calculus II, Organic Chemistry, and Urban Sociology. I loved the German and studied assiduously. But I gave up on the calculus and chemistry, never going to classes or taking the exams. I somehow slipped into a habit that some behaviorists refer to as “learned helplessness,” which caused me to enter a downward mental spiral.
I grasped at anything that would serve as a lifebuoy. During that first fall semester, I had to start thinking about what I was going to do for a Winter Term project. This was a one-month period sandwiched between the two semesters. During this month, students were expected to engage in projects that would help them develop professional interests that might lie outside of conventional coursework.
One day, while walking through the French Department, I saw an advertisement on the board outside Professor Henry Grubbs’ office. It was to spend the semester translating an old French food chemistry text. This was exciting.
That January, although I had flunked out of both Calculus II and Organic Chemistry (hard to pass if you don’t do the homework or attend class), I worked very hard on translating the book. In addition, I decided to cook five French meals using the Time-Life volume of Cooking of Provincial France, by Julia Child. Every single meal was a flop—in terms of timing. But I was thrilled. I would cook from 9 AM to 7 PM, serve the meal and feel totally refreshed. I remember making cream of mushroom soup and being enthralled with its flavor. I made a pork terrine by freezing pork, cutting it into bits, then smashing it with a hammer to get the requisite puréed texture.
I did all sorts of experimentation. Playing around with hard-crack sugar, coloring it, dropping it on an iced cake. I made meringues and sandwiched them with chocolate mousse. I really enjoyed moving away from written instructions. Here was my true calling. Although I was a fine musician, pretty good at following the written score, I could never leave the train tracks and tootle out into the pasture. But with cooking…
In contrast to the epiphanic Winter Term, the spring semester and fall semester of the following year were sheer misery. My self esteem had plummeted to close to zero. I was running on empty and burning oil. By the late fall, I had arranged another Winter Term, this time as an intern at Commander’s Palace in New Orleans. I don’t remember how I arranged this job, but I did. In any case, halfway through fall, I was ready to drop out.
However, I had this dream. I wanted to return to France, as that’s where I had been so happy. I still spoke fluent French and read quite well; I made a point to read French books—e.g., The Count of Monte Cristo, Gone with the Wind, and Around the World in 80 Days. So, I wrote a letter that I addressed to 25 hotels, asking them to take me on as an apprentice. I took the letter to the French department and asked them to proof-read it for me, then I typed each one out on a manual typewriter and mailed all 25 letters off.
Some time in November, I received 3 responses! One said “no”. One said “yes” but we don’t have any positions open right now. And one said ... “yes!!!” I was thrilled. All my problems were solved. The pathway to my new life lay before me, beckoning.
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