Free The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier by J. Michael Orenduff Page A

the design. It was too late to make anything other than minor adjustments, but I thought I should at least get all the input Molinero had wanted me to have.
    I also had another motive for wanting to talk to the rest of the staff. I thought I might learn something about Barry Stiles’ death.
    I knew who Helen Mure was because Kuchen had called it when reprimanding her and Mansfield, so I decided to meet her next.
    I found her instructing a young man how to chop bacon. “Run a very sharp knife between the fat and lean strips.” She demonstrated for him. “Then stack the lean strips and cut across them so that the resulting pieces are as close to square as you can get them. Do three pounds. Save the fats strips as well as the lean pieces.”
    She watched him do the first few strips then turned to me. “What can I do for you?”
    She had a square face, short black hair and a nasal Midwestern accent. There was a sense of energy and tension about her.
    “I came for inspiration,” I said, hoping to relax her slightly.
    “I don’t have time for small talk,” she replied.
    Well, that certainly worked well. “Maybe I’ve come at a bad time,” I said.
    “There are no good times for a chef de partie.”
    “Then I’ll let you—”
    “I’ve got a few minutes while Pedro here chops my bacon.”
    “It’s Juan, Ms. Mure.”
    “Whatever,” she replied without looking at him. Then to me she said, “I have no interest in chargers or decoration generally. I cook. If you want to know something about the food that might help your work, I can answer food questions. Other than that, you are wasting your time.”
    ‘O.K., if I can know only one thing about the food you cook, what should it be?”
    “It needs to be gahm.”
    I thought she said, “It needs to be gone,” so I said, “In other words, you want the diners to clean their plates.”
    “No. The food has to be gahm. It’s a Chinese word I learned while cooking in San Francisco. It means the flavor is not on the food or even in the food, but has become one with the food.”
    “Sounds very Zen,” I said, not really knowing what that meant.
    “Maybe, but you don’t accomplish it by meditation. It’s strictly a matter of technique. Two chefs start with the same piece of meat and the same seasonings. One ends up with a tasty meal you enjoy. The other ends up with a culinary experience you remember for years. The secret – like the devil – is in the details, how the meat is handled, how the seasoning is applied, the temperature at which the meat hits the pan. All these and many more factors make a huge difference.”
    She looked back at Juan and evidently approved of his chopping because she said nothing.
    “Are you and Arliss the only two chefs de partie?”
    Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
    Evidently, I had hit a sore spot. “No reason,” I said, “Just trying to get a feel for how a place like this works.”
    “O.K., I’ll tell you. Places like this seldom work. That fool Molinero talks about teamwork, but he knows nothing about kitchens. Kitchens are battlefields. Chefs are famous for big egos. We work in intense heat with short deadlines for everything we do. We yell and scream and insult each other.”
    “Wow.”
    “Chefs in serious restaurants adhere to certain rules – make sure health and safety procedures are rigidly maintained, treat the customer with respect, and make every plate the best it can be. But between us, there are no holds barred. I was hired with the understanding that I would be one of two chefs de partie. Then I met that fool Mansfield and realized I was on my own. Worse, my reputation could be harmed. People don’t know who cooked what. If Schnitzel gets a bad reputation, it will affect all of us who work here.”
    “Arliss seems like a nice guy,” I said.
    “He’s a wimp. He lets Kuchen push him around. He’s also slow, and that clogs us all up. But you want to know the real zinger? I think Kuchen is considering