Tales: Volume 1

By Trebbiano

Through my professional life, I encountered many situations that prompted storytelling. Encouragement to write these stories in the form of a book was a task I did not thrust upon myself for reasons that English is my second language, and I had never learned it in a structured schooling environment.
Life has its own agenda, and with the adversity of the COVID-19 lockdown, I took this idle time to give writing a try. This book is a product of encouragement by my business patrons who had listened to my stories, generated through a dialogue and solicited by curiosity.
The stories are based in part on real-life occurrences and laced with fiction. This method does increase the reading and entertainment value and protect those who had been involved in my life from slander or defamation.
It was never my intention to cause harm to or hurt anyone personally or a company.
It is my hope to open minds and lock up social mentalities held hostage by beliefs or strict upbringing, but do not endeavor to alter basic human values that benefit the peaceful coexistence of the human race, regardless of geographic locations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664183865

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Trebbiano.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and

dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/10/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 1

A time to reflect!

I am being ordered by health officials and local government to remain at home during this viral COVID-19 pandemic.

The time given by this pandemic takes me back to my professional life, by the way I had my start, and the progress through my life. In my retirement the need to stay active and alert, I opened the computer and found a page of a story I had started during a snowstorm. The customers to my business had often encouraged me to write a book. Go and document your life experiences, they would say to encourage me when they hear something interesting. Then a guest had stayed with me during a personal tragedy to find inner peace and healing. He is an author with several books to his credit. My dialogue about the process of writing a book gave me encouragement to proceed. With time on my hands now and eager to get busy with a project, I sat down to type.

Being awakened in the middle of the night because of a dream is generally an unpleasant experience. This one had to do with the time I finished grade school and entered the labor force. I remembered every detail. Strange, I thought. Dreams usually fade away. Why was this still so fresh in my memory? So clear was this crazy dream and would not let go. This dream visited a period that I had once in my professional career, surfacing with real details of events and precise time segments; it got worrisome. The mind would not rest and deprived me of my sleep for the remainder of the night. I am now asking the "what if?" question, the question that has no answers, not now, not ever!

That night was one of the most intense reviews, tracing my life back in delirium of half sleep and dreams to my first job as apprentice to the butcher in my father’s business. At the tender young age of fourteen years and just finishing grade school, it amazes me today just how I handled all this that came to me at that time of my life. Physically I was strong and tall and healthy, but still a child inside, a teenager with dreams and emotions, ideals, and a good portion of defiance. My father kept that element in check with his domineering personality, an authority in the family for the good of the business and, to a lesser effect, on family life.

I did not have the choice to become a butcher, but Father so dictated with his authority. There simply were no other options. A man of statue and authority, he commanded my older brother and myself to enter his business and become a productive worker. Three years to graduate from apprenticeship and about two years to work thereafter as a trained butcher, I had the learning process continue in the skills to produce prime cuts of meat and sausages, smoked ham, and cured meats, a delicate procedure that required training and refinement and hands-on experience.

My older brother was sent to business school at one point to be groomed to become the future business owner.

It was during the time my brother attended school and was boarded at the location for the duration that my father became ill and could not lead the sausage-making process. It was now in my hands to fill in the void, even with the minimal skills I had acquired by that time. I was ill prepared, and the product that came from my humble efforts did not measure up to the quality level the business was known for, and for that, I suffered my share of reprimands and scolding.

I never forgot this time and found myself undeserving. In fact, it became the turning point for me to seek a different career path. The realization that I was in the wrong profession had grown from this day on. There was no stopping it. The thought kept on growing and eagerly waiting for my older brother’s return. The fear of being turned into my brother’s workhorse became unbearable. My attitude changed, and my motivation deflated. I had just to get out!

When my father got better and started taking over his role, I was just buying time until my brother completed school and returned to the workforce. Now what? That was the question I was wrangling with. The question was, What will I do in the future?

A casual interest in cooking and an immensely powerful dream to be a chef in a luxury hotel sealed my path to pursue my new profession. This image stuck with me; it had restored my motivation and awakened my excitement. I had a goal to pursue, and it gave me the courage to confront my father.

I told him that the butcher trade would never be my profession, that I despised it and I wanted to become a cook. Much to my surprise, he did not show anger or made any efforts to talk me out of it. On the contrary, he thought it was a good idea and started thinking about places where I could start an apprenticeship.

Finally, I was seeing a way out from under his dominance and gain a level of freedom. Yet two more years at a place of his choosing, a restaurant that gave me the basic skills, but mostly I served as cheap labor. The owner had been a master chef and was therefore licensed to educate young boys in an apprenticeship program as cooks. We worked split shifts serving lunch and dinner under his minimal supervision. The training duties fell on the most senior cook, who had done the same to get out of the former butcher trade. This formed a bond between us and put me in the right-hand position, covering for his day off and teaching me to be independent. I did have many of the basics from my butcher trade; the simple menu was not much of a challenge. The other apprentice accepted this since I was a few years older and had a baseline to build on.

The owner had a daughter with all the female attractions one could dream of. She was the object of desire by all the cooks, but because of her family status, she was untouchable. She did her share of teasing, arriving at the kitchen with clothing that one would not go out into the street. She enjoyed this, drove the young apprentice crazy, while she smiled and took in the attention.

The conciliation price to her ended up being the women of the Middle Ages, who handled the beverage dispensing to the service staff. She had also a boardinghouse at the upper level, designated to employees.

One night, through her own motivation, she knocked at my door and wanted to socialize. I was alone that evening. We had a beer, and one thing led to another for one of my early encounters with a woman. I figured, one learns to ride on an old bike and gathers experience without commitments. Her youthful age had served her well, and with that, a secondary apprenticeship had begun.

It was a good time, gave me a new outlook, but I realized I had much to learn thereafter.

With the graduation came the time to move on and to make plans for my culinary future.

On an old typewriter that belonged to a museum, I typed my résumé and sent it to a large conference center in Zurich, Switzerland, on a response to an advertisement in our regional newspaper seeking young cooks. A prompt reply with an offer came back, much to my surprise.

With my humble bag packed, I moved to Zurich, called on the employment office, and received my work papers and a room assignment. This one is under the company’s contract. We will make a rent deduction from your pay, okay? I shared the room with a young cook from Berlin and took my scooter back and forth to work.

This building took over a full city block, concert halls, conference rooms, ballrooms, a restaurant with a great reputation, a café with a garden terrace, and the nightclub that featured Switzerland’s famous band.

The kitchen was bigger than anything I had seen so far, sectioned off with hot food preparation, butchering, and garde-manger. Poultry, fish, and live trout in a chilled basin. Staffed with a brigade of twenty men each assigned to a station with cooks as helpers and apprentices.

The chef! A man of authority who was felt when he entered the cooking areas. This operation was run by a strict code of ethics. I quickly recognized his level of genius. He assigned me to assist the chef saucier and also carried the position of the sous-chef. One other cook in a senior rank and an apprentice completed his station.

This was the beginning to my blossoming career in this culinary world. I learned and was hungry for more knowledge, took everything in with a strong desire for more and observed the others to learn and acquire the same skills.

The daily menu served as my notepad to record all the details and recipes for that day’s meals after the meal period was closed. There was so much to learn, a new menu every day, which never repeated any of the items. It opened my horizon to realize the unlimited potential in this culinary field. I felt rich and fulfilled with what I had entered and was grateful with the good luck that guided me to this place. This kitchen serviced the restaurants, all banquets, the nightclub, and meetings. Concert halls featured world-renowned musicians and orchestras. Insurance companies used the nightclub facilities to feed their employees at lunch time, and then came that frequent call for a very special request by phone to the restaurant service manager.

Emicee Honky! Only the sous chef/chef saucier was designated to cook this order.

Thinly sliced strips of tender veal sautéed in very little butter and finished in heavy cream. Placed in a service casserole and delivered across the street to an older woman. A follow-up phone call by the manager was to find out if the meal was consumed. I was perplexed over the fuss that this order generated and was promptly told that this was in fact for the woman’s cat. If not cooked meticulously right, the cat would not eat it, and that prompted a remake of the meal. I prayed that I would never be assigned for this order ever. But it happened one day. By then I had moved up in my ranking and was first assistant cook (commis) to the sous chef. The sous chef was acting chef on the chef’s day off, and I was assigned to the sauce station—an honor and challenge all the same, and now this finicky cat with the veal dish!

I remembered the details and the preparation required, and with the sous chef looking over my shoulders, it all turned out to be accepted by the cat. A round of applause was given by the cooks and a bow to the honor.

I learned to cook the fine French, Italian, Swiss, and many international recipes. We prepared grand gala buffets and banquets for hundreds of guests, carving inside the ballroom and working with seafood, oysters, langouste, scampi, Dover sole, and all the meticulous preparation. It became a feast for my learning experiences.

Through my time in Zurich, the strict adherence to the steps of preparation, to which I adhered to, moved me forward in my all-around knowledge, caught up with what I never learned but should have during my apprenticeship, and earned me a promotion to station chef (chef de partie) chef tournant. In this position, I had to work in every station to replace the station chef in his day off. It was another opportunity and a ground to step in but in the end proved to be a fantastic learning tool.

Looking back to this time, I call myself incredibly lucky and very satisfied. It laid the foundation for my culinary skills and set up my future career.

Socially, this time was not wasted on me either.

Arriving in Zurich as a shy German country boy, I adapted to the city life, and seeking friendship with girls was eagerly explored. One of the girls who worked on the service station, which provided all the waiters’ needs like beverage orders, coffee, bread, butter, and condiments, had an eye on me. All the female employees had been boarded in the company’s employee dormitory and were strictly off limits to the male gender.

We had to meet someplace outside the house, and the city’s park nearby served as an alternative. Ample numbers of benches in secluded corners, providing privacy, led to testing each other’s kissing skills and exploring the body. As exciting as it was, it never led to any other physical contacts. I still took much pleasure from contacting the female physique, the affectionate kissing and caressing. What if is again the question!

The city provided multiple entertainment venues. It prompted me to seek to see an opera. I purchased a tuxedo for the formal attire required for this grand artistic performance. Carmen von Bizet was my first opera, one I still treasure as my utmost favorite one. Good money was spent to go to upscale restaurants alone or with friends and order food from other cultures. The Spanish restaurant in the old city quickly became one of the favorites. Paella and Rioja wine always served up a splendid experience. We also took a liking to escargot and learned in the process that the butter-rich dish provided for a solid foundation for a larger consumption of alcoholic beverages without suffering a hangover.

On my own, I checked out nightclubs with live music and the more risqué clubs with dancers who showed their flesh to tease the male public. Yes, it was almost shameful to me, but I had to see it. Burlesque shows and striptease to the naked body of beautiful girls shamed me at times. I used to take precaution not to be seen coming out or entering such an establishment.

I took language classes in French at the Berlitz School of Languages. A novel concept to get drilled on learning vocabularies, identifying objects, speaking, and repeating it gave me a modest foundation in French. French was spoken for the most part in the kitchen; therefore, I had seen the need to become a part to the dialogue.

Then it happened. I used to handle the late shift as part of my rotation for restaurant orders. On event nights in the banquet rooms or concert halls, the servers had to be fed a small meal. The bartender, a stunning black-haired woman with Gypsy eyes, came for her dinner when on duty in the nightclub.

On these work shifts, I also met a server with whom I connected with a date that ultimately linked to a serious relationship.

It is now August 1, the Swiss national holiday. On this night, when the female bartender, Janice, came for the meal, she asked me out to dinner with her, her treat, she insisted. She picked up at the employee entrance and was ushered into a small red convertible sports car. At that very moment, the chef appeared at the entrance and witnessed this pickup, with a bright grin on his face.

Air-dried beef and pork called Bündner Platte, with a dry wine and crusty bread, was a perfect meal at this hillside restaurant overlooking Lake Zurich. I found myself in seventh heaven, this fiery black-haired woman with Gypsy blood treating this simple country boy to dinner; what was the world coming to? The evening was perfect and crowned with the obvious highlight at her apartment. I made this day to a personal holiday! JL Day.

My learning curve at this establishment was immense. Presumed to have more experience due to the added years over the other young cooks, I felt the pressure to perform and ramp up my skills on the fast track.

I did so by taking on bold challenges and paying meticulous attention to the procedures I was shown and those that took place around me. The confidence placed in me was immense. Given tasks that had been way beyond my level, I managed to master the tasks and came out ahead. This, of course, became a confidence builder, then took me to realize the basic skills I do have, what I was missing, and the fine points to bring the product to the highest level, and for this, we have the senior station chefs as a resource. This realization took away my shy demeanor, and I opened up with questions and dialogue on each and every product I was given to produce. How can I make it better? A common question, which by now had been expected. Ask and you shall receive. My fear at first had been to be seen as a burden, yet my questions showed my hunger to learn and to better my skills and knowledge.

After one year, I was asked to see the chef in his office. I presumed that something was wrong and expected the worst. When he turned around on his desk, he stated my last name as usual, then congratulated me to a promotion to station chef.

I was stunned at first; could this be real? I then smiled and thanked him for the promotion and confidence in me.

I must have grown an inch taller when I left his office. Smiles from ear to ear and a hearty handshake from my immediate superior, the sous chef, who must have made a recommendation or at least endorsed me to this post.

The junior cooks took it well, no envy, only well-wishes. A camaraderie I had kept with me on my memory.

The Swiss cooks’ union, unlike any union in the US, is engaged to further the skill level and education of trade professionals, offering specialty skills courses in their own hotel facility, which served as the school. They published a periodic newspaper in which the entire world was placing want ads for culinary skilled personnel. A springboard to the world for the adventurous, and I quickly learned that this character trait was dominant in this profession.

A full-page ad of a gull wing-shaped hotel in the USA took the attention of many. Wow, how it had made an impression on me! I showed it to my girlfriend, and she simply said, Let’s apply! Both of us mailed an application and résumé to the address and very promptly received a job offer.

Adventure and excitement were flowing in our bodies as the prospect of going to America filled our fantasies.

Now the detailed work for a visa or work permit, we went to the US consulate to file an application. The process was paper intensive and resulted in a permit to enter the USA for both of us. It turned out to be a stroke of luck, her having already applied for it a year prior during her tenure in England, and for myself, the process carried a priority quota status for the nationality and profession. The green card was completed within ten weeks. Now we were well on the way to make our preparation for the trip. My parents took it hard but, in the end, could not stop us.

USA, here we come!

An ocean voyage from Southampton to New York on the Holland American lines ship Amsterdam took us across the Atlantic in six-day sailing, arriving in New York on a clear October day.

During that voyage, I learned that a fellow cook from Zurich had signed on with the ship as a cook. I was assigned to a men’s section in tourist class at the aft section of the ship. The girl friend, now referred to as fiancée, had the female section as her cabin, a shared cabin. It became clear to me that the line was catering to the rich and famous, and first class had to be the place to be. Unaffordable to us, we circumvented this by dressing up for dinner on formal attire and had our friend show us a way to first-class dining.

The food served in first class was indeed first-class. Lavish dinners and great beverages, and nobody ever questioned us. Maybe our friend put a word in for is with the maître d’.

Then back to tourist class, where the real down-to-earth fun took place. Drinks for fifty cents and hearty jokes had been the going routine and suited us better than the stuffy social scene in first!

As the skyline of Manhattan seemingly grew into the endless sky, we stood there in awe with both eyes wide open, like a child on Christmas morning. We were looking up on these tall buildings, something we had known from pictures only, and now we were here! In due time, it gave us a stiff neck, but it filled our heart with pride. An accomplishment I would have never dreamed of in my hometown.

Three days was spent exploring the sites and the world’s fair, and looking up at all the tall buildings gave us a stiff neck. We did the tourist stops and then made our way by bus to Washington, DC. A cousin on my mother’s side took us in and helped us in getting an apartment and a car. He had immigrated several years earlier and worked for the US government.

The hotel I had my job offered was within a short walk from the rental efficiency. I began my first day of work at the hotel and reported to the chef but was referred to as the executive chef, and he was German. His entire kitchen staff came from Europe, mostly German speaking, which helped me immensely since my English language skills had been nonexistent. I could not communicate in English at all and relied on my girlfriend to translate.

I worked in the banquet kitchen for one week and was given the work to mass-produce for banquets. Hundreds of meals daily. I was not proud of this level of quality. I was not a stranger to large banquets, but the preparation of the food in Switzerland had a different culinary standard than what I had been forced to provide. Duchess potatoes made with hot milk and some potato powder from a can. Dehydrated flakes with hot milk added and a stick of butter became Duchess potatoes.

Then came the announcement from the top that the convention season is ending, and I would be going to another hotel, where arrangements had been made to continue employment. A smaller but more luxurious hotel, catering to affluent business traveler and politically engaged professionals, this was a better place and more my style. However, the communication moved to the forefront as my problem. Only the executive chef and the sous chef spoke German; all other kitchen staff came from the various demographics of the city, namely, people of color. The English they spoke had a different tone, and what little I had picked up by that time was put to a test. Is this a different language? I had asked the sous chef. No, it is a slang. In time you will understand it, an adjustment.

The position I got was chef garde-manger, responsible for all cold food preparations—hors d’oeuvres for cocktail parties, canapés, salads and salad dressings, appetizers, and fruit for the various meals. A job I learned to love and started to apply my acquired skills.

A group of European cooks from various hotels showed us out to restaurants and drinking places; all had a German theme, good beer, and familiar food. We socialized and learned from their experiences, the pitfalls, and the scams. Beware of this and do not trust all the things. The most important one was the revelation that the selective service board (military recruitment for mandatory services) will require me to report for military duty no later than six months from the date of arrival.

That was an eye-opener! It scared me, shook me to the bone, and now what could I do? I did not anticipate the duty to serve in the US armed forces. I did not come here, and if I had known it in advance, I would have stayed in Switzerland.

The Vietnam War was not on my agenda and military duty equally not, and all this as a noncitizen. How could they demand this? I felt no obligation to fulfill this call. The only option is to leave before the time runs out. We packed our bags and drove the Ford Fairlane to Montreal. We managed to beat the deadline by a week.

Montreal, a cosmopolitan city in the French Canadian province of Quebec, showed us a warm welcome. The flavors of Europe came to light: restaurants with French names and stores that carried familiar products from back home; it all made us feel at home. The largest hotel in town was hiring. As luck would strike twice, I was offered a job on the evening shift and assigned to the chef saucier station. Three other European cooks, two Swiss and one German, completed the team. The entire crew on this shift amounted to approximately twenty-five cooks and pantry people.

It was a challenging job producing nightly sauces and to order meat and fish dishes for seven hundred to nine hundred meals. The food being served in three different restaurants had a wide variety and high levels of sophistication. Sauces accompanied many of the items counting to fifteen and more daily, all depending on the nightly specials. A large coffee shop, a signature specialty restaurant, and the nightclub all demanded preparation and testing my skills. My team performed flawlessly. The communication between us four took place with hand signals and body language, eye contact, and other motions. All orders had been announced out loud by the German sous chef, then by eye contact acknowledgment. The pickup by the service staff was handled the same way; it had worked like clockwork. This work was fun and gratifying and gave a great sense of satisfaction. The entire evening shift worked in harmony; we formed individual friendships and bonded. Cooks from all corners of the world delivered a variety of experiences. At the end of the shift, we often had a volunteer cook a special meal for the group. The chef was pleased to see such harmony. He joined us frequently and donated a case of beer. I will name just a few! We ate Swiss dishes, German food, Chinese food, Indonesian exotic spicy food, Swedish specialties, Italian dishes, Greek food, and the list goes on.

We socialized outside of work, treasured our friendships, and stuck together as a team.

Then came a strike by the union against the hotel. Us Europeans and other nationals had no solidarity with this union. The morning shift stayed out to strike, being mostly Canadians and immigrants from Greece. The call to keep open was going out to the evening shift. Everyone from the evening crew came to work and was split up to cover the essential posts to keep the kitchen running. Business now being slower gave us the chance to cover every need and kept the hotel kitchen open. Not being a member of the union kept us in the clear from reprisal and threats, and we stuck together as a group and cover our backs.

My girlfriend returned to Washington and shared a living quarter with a former coworker I had befriended in Switzerland. Okay, If she wants me, she will seek me—that was my take on her move.

Montreal is a cosmopolitan city with much flair and has much of entertainment to offer. Go-go dancers dancing in show windows and tables attracted the young and old. On my way home to the apartment, I overheard loud singing and laughter. Good enough, let me check it out. An Irish pub with a piano player-singer was leading the public on with Irish songs. It was packed to the last standing room, and beer was passed overhead to the customers, and money returned the same way. That certainly set a good mood, passing time much faster than one realizes. Winter approached. Wow, I never felt such bitter cold and winds from the north cutting into the skin as if a knife were shaving layers of skin away from the face. I soon realized that my winter cloth was too light for this climate. A bearskin fur coat served me to manage, then good mittens and a fur hat completed the essentials for that winter. I did, however, realize that despite the highly desirable job, I would not relish to repeat another winter.

My walks home from work often made me feel the razor-sharp icy arctic winds that came down the wind tunnels in between the buildings. One must seek the calm side or else freeze to death. I passed an Irish pub just around the corner from my apartment building. This place was packed with a drinking crowd and sing-along theme leading from a pianist.

Montreal has a relatively young population. The French Canadian native girls walked in a way as if coming off a fashion show. The young male population was more the rough and tough type. They did not fit together. Charming, elegant, great posture, and a stride that turned the hip movements into a rumba dance. They really have it together, and flirting was certainly a masterful skill they practiced. What will it take to get to taste the forbidden fruit? This thought crossed my mind, and my body responded eagerly to it. What came from this I must leave to your imagination. The opportunity to meet up with a Norwegian waitress after work proved to be rewarding, but it never developed to a lasting connection. A need for the moment served us both!

In a travel magazine, I found hotel addresses from advertisement for the South Seas—Tahiti, Bora Bora, and many more. I sent off letters to seek employment thinking that their natives may not have the skills of a European chef de partie. To no avail. Nothing came of it, not even a No, thank you reply.

Warm tropical climate had always been my desire.

The Montreal World Expo opened shortly, seeking employees for an opportune pay and seemingly exciting jobs. Many of the hotel’s employees from all areas of service went to work at the expo grounds. It left us short at the start but was quickly filled with new candidates and some returning after a dissolution of work conditions at the expo. I maintained my position. Why give up a dream job for an unknown and for a little higher pay? It made no sense to me.

My girlfriend returned from Washington, and we made plans to get married.

The wedding took place in a local church. The pastor handled the ceremony, and a few close friends witnessed it. Following was the ceremony by a local priest and witnessed by our friend from the ship, who since joined this hotel a few weeks earlier; this served us well. After, we assembled at a fine French restaurant to celebrate the union. That was just the right thing. Neither my wife nor I had the stomach for a large family wedding in the homeland. Having our moms and dads here plus my two brothers would have been nice. We could not afford to host or pay the travel costs for all these family members. A picture was sent home and found its way into the local newspaper in Germany.

The honeymoon took us on the very first airplane ride. The thrill at takeoff and the excitement to go to a tropical island overwhelmed us with joy and anticipation.

The hotel on Saint Thomas overlooked the bay and harbor like a watchdog and accommodated us with an employee discount rate from the hotel company. Like children, we were around in the warm tropical ocean water, feasting on local tropical fruit for the first time. The mangoes and papayas all had unfamiliar flavors but appealed to our taste quickly. Sunshine and sunburns, cheap rum drinks, steel bands, local dances, and island songs intoxicated the evenings. We could have stayed there forever! Many beautiful beaches and Caribbean food all intoxicated the minds. This sleepy island had a true local flavor. Some historic places with statues to honor the heroes from the past, shops selling local handcrafted souvenirs, cheap rum at half a dollar per bottle. With the smell the ocean and the feel of the balmy air, the South Seas came into my thoughts once more.

Returning back to Montreal, reality set us in to sober up.

A surprise notification came to my mailbox. My search efforts finally got a reply. The Intercontinental Hotel Corporation headquartered in the Pan Am Building in New York invited me to an Interview with a position in the Far East. A short flight to JFK followed by a helicopter ride to the top of the Pan Am Building was way over my means, but I could not pass up the opportunity. The alternative would have been subway and getting lost or an expensive taxi ride. This was a thrill. I was informed that I would get a job, but the location had to be firmed up. Word came back in a few weeks with an offer for a sous chef position at the Intercontinental Hotel in New Delhi, India.

The terms of a contractual employment over two years were a salaried position paid in foreign exchange in India, and the hotel would take care of the housing, food, transport, taxes, uniform, etc. The term had been stated. Net, net, net. I resigned from my position in Montreal, but it took two months for the government of India to produce the visa documents before we could make our travel arrangements.

The flight from Kloten Airport in Switzerland headed to the Far East over the counties in the Middle East, then eventually landed in Moscow, Russia, for refueling. Being the Soviet Union, all the passengers had to get out of the plane and ushered into a hall. Everyone displayed tension in their body language. Officials with fur hats came to collect all passports for review only, assured the airline. This took a long time, while the airplane was refueled. Finally, the passports returned, and all passengers had a chance to relax and stretch the legs in a transit hall under strict armed guard observation by security staff, until time to reboard was announced. First impressions? Everything as expected!

On with the voyage and over the Himalayan Mountain range. The pilot tried to identify the various mountains peaks by name. What a site to see the snow-covered peaks.

We arrived in New Delhi. We were now getting outside the building and getting the first breath of the native tropical air. High humidity and foul odors reached our nostrils. The diver from the hotel took us to the city, passing some areas of the outskirts that looked rather barren.

When the Intercontinental Hotel came into view, it looked as if it was the only building far and near. Life surrounding the large structure looked primitive. Dusty streets and cars labeled as taxi, scooters, and bicycles filled the street. The Indian countryside revealed life as it was: primitive and poverty all around.

The hotel is a modern high-rise building, and we entered the stately lobby and on to the general manager’s secretary. The GM greeted us warmly and assured us of accommodations and that his secretary would be doing the arrangements. We also learned that the executive chef, a Swiss national, had just arrived two days prior. A hotel room was assigned for now and said that other more permanent arrangements were being secured.

The secretary was a stunning slender Indian girl in a sari that started below the belly button, exposing much skin up to the breast covering. She was small breasted but extremely alluring, and I found my eyes wandering, much to her enjoyment. Take your time, I was thinking. The view is too good.

The first day on the job introduced me to the whole kitchen brigade of about 150 cooks, helpers, and cleaners. The cooks all had very dark, almost black skin. They were from Bengal, seeking work in the city. The dish washing and pot washing crew got labeled as the untouchables, sweepers by the Indian caste system and put their status to the lowest of all. Harsh rules!

A well-laid-out American-style kitchen with a pastry shop was led by a German pastry chef. He had been there a few years already and dated a local girl, a real beauty.

Two more European cooks arrived, one Swiss and one German, to complete the allocation of expatriates.

This kitchen produced food as the main production center and serviced an American coffee shop with a small, short-order cooking line, then the grand restaurant, three hundred plus seats, decorated as a grand salon, peacock design giant bead curtains on each end, and a service staff in formal Indian uniform attire. This was the showcase to service foreign dignitaries, local prominent embassy staff and officers, and visitors from all over the world dealing with Indian government agencies. There were Peace Corps executives, Ford Foundation staff doing good work seeking to establish water sources all over the continent to get this country to feed itself.

Embassies from various nations frequently entertained the Indian high society on their country’s national day celebration, hosting banquets and cocktail parties.

The local alcoholic beverage products of beer or spirits did not measure up to international expectations. The embassies provided products from their homeland, imported under the diplomatic umbrella. Those events became an opportunity for us expatriates to get some supply otherwise unavailable to us.

The restaurant on the rooftop had a Chinese concept, manned and managed by Mr. Wong and his Chinese cooks.

I spent my free time with him, observing the preparation of food the Chinese way. This was something new, this wok cooking and all the variations dishes, the preparation. We called it mise en place, and it made a huge impression on me.

To learn from them had been a challenge. They were secretive and fast in the way the food was cooked, seasoned, and finished all in just minutes. It was hard to follow.

Down in the main kitchen, we housed a section reserved for genuine Indian cuisine with Chef Kapoor in charge. A proud and skilled chef and willing to pass on his knowledge in exchange for information on our Continental cuisine.

Mind-boggling amounts of spice variations, strange names, and pungent flavors all required a specific treatment in the cooking process.

The demands put on us Europeans bordered the level of miracles.

Pâte en croûte with Cumberland sauce, yet there had been no availability of currant jelly, port wine, and most other ingredients, yet all had to be produced to a first-class product through improvising with ingredients that came close to the real recipe.

One event called for clear turtle soup. I questioned the chef’s sanity to accept such an order. But in his cool, nonchalant, and hands-off style, he assured me that fresh products are coming in-house for it. I would be okay and able to produce it. He had much confidence in my ability to get it right. In Europe, a clear turtle soup order had been a filled by opening a can from Lacroix, a fine product ready to be heated and finished with a shot of dry Sherry. I was faced now with the task of preparing such a product from the ground up and not knowing if I could locate the essential herbs and flavoring ingredients for it. Small dictionary-style French cookbook served me to identify all necessary ingredients, but most spices and herbs did not exist, nor did the hotel carry any of the fortified wines for the finish.

Live snapper turtles arrived for the soup, and now the question was, How do I go about to process these animals? Nobody had a clue, nor could the chef give me any advice. For the sake of dignity, I would circumvent the procedure I was forced to use. All I will say was it was a cruel procedure. Once killed and washed, the animal ended up in a large steam kettle with cold water. Vegetables and seasonings now were added, and with the help from the Indian chef and his wealth of knowledge on spices, we had found a mixture that resembled the flavor of a turtle soup. These being added to the cold water, we slowly heated the kettle to a gentle boil. Everybody was eager to see how it was going to turn out. The executive chef looked at this brew with great interest and gave the all-clear signal. It looked as if it was going to come to a good soup. Good things take time, just wait and see. My confidence to see this turn out a success had been boosted, and now the finishing of careful straining to preserve the crystal clear broth and adding the gelatin kind skin cut into tiny squares plus the aroma from the alcohol, and it would be done. The sherry imitation consisted of a dry white wine and two local distilled beverages sold as whiskey. Then came the first tasting. All my European colleagues approved of it, the senior Indian cooks liked it with some reservation, and the head chef of the Indian restaurant loved it. And since he had been in Europe and tasted it there, he congratulated me on this accomplishment. I thanked him for his generous help in the choosing the spices.

All that was left to do was the garnish, which came from the rich gelatin textured skin. It needed cleaning. Separating from the shell and leg meat and cut into small, diced cubes. The pot washer Anil and I took on this task, and it was a new experience for us. The handling of this gelatin-rich skin coated the hands and glued all fingers together. The cleaning of the hands could only be accomplished with hot water to melt it off, but when it came down to the bare skin and the fingers had still been glued together, there was only one solution. Cut the fingers apart to allow them to separate and get the hot water in between for cleaning.

This party was ordered by an embassy. I knew from the German embassy that all of them are importing wines from their home country. I asked this staff person if she would donate a Madeira for the soup to enhance the flavor to perfection. She agreed, and now we were all perfect to serve this soup.

The birth of my son in New Delhi was an occasion to celebrate with a good bottle of champagne. By the courtesy of the German embassy, I received a bottle of Henkell Trocken sparkling wine.

Another time, the Russian embassy hosted a party, and they furnished the caviar to be served to the guests. Good, genuine beluga caviar in one-kilo cans. As a thank you for our efforts, each of us received a one-kilo can of caviar! This was more than one family could consume.

Down in the main kitchen, we housed a section reserved for genuine Indian cuisine. Chef Kapoor, a proud and skilled chef, was willing to pass on his knowledge in exchange for reciprocal information on Continental cuisine.

I now remembered talking to him and giving my background. He was the man that during my tenure in Zurich had staged an Indian food festival at the property. I recognized this once I learned his full name. He recalled the time and event but could not place me from his recollection. He savored that time nonetheless and spoke vigorously about the Swiss chef. Mind-boggling amounts of spice variations, strange names, and pungent flavors all required a specific treatment in the cooking process.

The state banquet to honor His Highness Prince Ali Khan, the head of the Islamic congregation, was hosted at the hotel.

The prominence of the government, diplomatic corps, and prominent Indian families had been on the guest list. Detailed notations to the dietary restrictions are all marked in the list of five hundred guests. No pork for the Muslims, no beef for the Hindu, and vegetarian diet segmented to no-this-and-that ingredient made this banquet rather unique. It looked to me as if we were serving five hundred individual orders. Chicken was the only meat acceptable to the carnivores. The vegetarians would be serviced from our Indian kitchen. Now I could see a chance to survive this monster banquet. Hopefully, the service had it together, and nobody would change their mind in the last minute—a common occurrence I had faced many times in my career.

A souvenir menu with the signature of His Highness was the reward and recognition to pull this off with great success.

The routine set in again to manage the unique circumstances this hotel had demanded. Now the unique experience of processing chicken.

The farmer and his children literally walked the chicken onto the loading dock entrance. A processing line had been set up to get these birds ready for the kitchen. A team of Nepalese chicken butchers took on this work daily. Short in statue, the first man chopped off the head and bled the carcass and passed it on to the next man like in a production line. He in turn had to dip the bird into scalding water to loosen the feathers, then plug the feathers off the skin and pass it on for gutting and rinsing. This gave the first man a dilemma. When the head was cut from the body, the neck stayed rather active, twisting and turning, spraying the blood all over the man’s clothing, head, and hair. This sticky substance attracted the loose feathers from the next man action and turned him in the process looking like a giant chicken by the end of the workday. It was hilarious to see! Regrets only that I never took a picture of him.

Our son, who was born in a local hospital, grew rapidly with his mother feeding him her natural milk, then gradually transitioned to soft food and fruit. A blender was available to buy from an Australian family returning home. No such machine would have been available in any local store. The locals used a pestle to grind food to a flower consistency. The hotel provided an Amah, a young married woman to help with the child-rearing duties. It was less of a need but rather a status symbol and to create a job and income. She was unable to conceive a child and took passionate care of our boy as if he were her own. This young woman took such good care of the child and grew close to him. We had been worried she would take him away as her own and disappear in the slums of Old Delhi. Nothing of that sort. She was in fact the kind of person one would like to adopt. Had she not been married, I would have matched her with a German chef from our group. We did what could be done to ease her lifestyle. Food we bought was including her to take home. Extra pay in rupees, not of much value to us, had been passed on. She grew into our hearts as if she were family. Fond memories remain in my head.

The seasons in India are different from our expectations. It is extremely hot starting in March after a relative chilly winter with temperatures in the low thirties Fahrenheit all the way to a frost. The warming comes rapidly with no rain on the horizon. The air is dry and pleasant, but by late April and May, the heat really kicks in. Walking with an umbrella suddenly makes sense. The windows on the taxi cars got rolled up, for the hot air was burning on the skin.

Inside the hotel kitchen with the ventilation in full force, it only took in air from the outside, turning the kitchen temperature to past fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Dry air kept us from feeling the sweat on the body; suddenly all of us are totally exhausted, dehydrated as a result of too little water consumption. The water was not safe to drink without having been boiled before. The cooks offered us hot Darjeeling tea with sugar and milk. That took care of this situation, gave energy back, and rehydrated. Salt pills taken as an additive then helped to retain the water in the body.

The house we shared each had three floors. The rooftop was a single bedroom with living room, bath, and bedroom and was taken by the pastry chef. My floor with two bedrooms had to be shared with a single man from Switzerland. Separate bathrooms made this relative private. He stayed to himself and was not interested to socialize. Loud music had been his pastime. This was not appreciated by my wife nursing and caring for a baby since it carried over to our living room and caused much disturbance.

Our bathroom directly accessible from the bedroom was furnished with a shower and tub. The water from the faucet did not need to be heated. In contrast, we had searched to get cool water from the tab. Finally, we learned a way, by filling the tub with water in the morning or overnight, then keeping the door open to the bathroom, and with the tiny 3 BTU window air conditioner, the water cooled in a few hours to enjoy a cool bath. This felt as if one dips a hot iron in water. The sound came from the mouth of the person getting this welcome cooling down.

This is the time of the season when Indian’s head north to the Himalayan Mountains. Srinagar in Kashmir is the destination a missionary couple from America invited us to and accompany them. A train ride that shared the cabins with the natives going home or traveling for heat relief north was also spiked with livestock, chickens, sheep, food supplies, and lots of children at all ages.

At the end station of the route, the journey changed to on foot, and the luggage got transferred onto cullies. Men of skin and bones making a living strapping the baggage with a leather strip on their back and around the forehead to carry the suitcases uphill. About a mile, we found what was described as a hotel. Primitive open windows delivered the cool mountain breeze. The beds had been like at the house, a simple frame with a wooden board and thin but fluffy bedding material.

It was a welcome break from the work routine at the hotel. The visit had been short, but it broke the heat period. Sometime later, we took a train to Agra. The magnificent temple, the Taj Mahal, sits in the middle of the countryside and not much leading up to this great wonderful building. With amazement, we thought how such sophisticated construction could be accomplished under such primitive conditions. All marble and exquisitely decorated with inlaid stone, it was perfectly placed to catch the sunrise at just the right time; a reflecting pool all makes for endless photo opportunities.

Then nature announced a change in the weather. Winds picked up the red clay sand and whirled it into the air, forming a red cloud umbrella over the city. This lasted a few weeks, threatening the population to suffocate them under it.

Then at the first bolt of thunder, everybody ran outside to welcome the first raindrops. The monsoon has arrived and, with it, spectacular cloud formations and thunder showers like pouring buckets from the clouds to wash the land and flood the streets. This forced all hidden creatures to surface from drainage pipes. Snakes, rodents, and bugs, every creature that had been underground to survive the heat, are now taking part in the monsoon rain and have an adverse sight, for it brings out every snake and rodents out of their hiding places onto the streets.

Sunsets with bursting red colors and sunrises are a spectacle of nature. Humidity set in, causing discomfort until the rains cooled the air down to a comfortable temperature. This wet period lasted a few months, then gradually diminished and settled into the best season. The growing season is on its way, the best time of the year. This had become the time when the party business peaked, gave the hotel and us the command to produce the most incredible food products, buffets, sit-down dinners, and cocktail receptions. The German embassy had asked me to help them out on my free time with party preparation for smaller parties staged at the embassy. The reward for this service came in the form of German wine, champagne, or a case of beer. This reward was more precious than money since local rupees could not be converted to a hard currency. Local money could not be spent for meaningful investments. Gold silver was available yet difficult to obtain. A black market had set prices to such levels; it made no economic sense.

We relied on a monthly transfer permit to convert the salary to any kind of foreign hard currency and then transfer it to a homeland account. Seventy-five percent was the allotment, but when the Indian ownership company paid us foreigners on the last day of the month that would fall on a Friday, it made it impossible to secure our translator to accompany us to the bank. The ownership company controlled the finances, and the InterContinental managing company was the operating company and the shield to hang out for marketing purpose. The full salary was in hand as rupees and basically worthless unless we find something to invest it as a treasure to take with us home.

Hard currency was on the black market and of course risky to deal with the dark elements in the city. Getting into this and being caught by police bring severe punishment. Semiprecious gemstones looked of poor quality and not worth the chance. I found a man who offered to me to custom-make handwoven oriental carpets. He described the product, which he a showed to us at our house, being handmade in the villages outside the city, using Australian wool, German color dyes, and patterns with exclusive designs he owned. The knot count was to be a minimum of four hundred per square centimeter, and the color would never fade, not even from the sun or washing it with soap. His price had of course to be negotiated, and then he took the order without a deposit, simply on the honor system out to the countryside, and there the entire village worked on the design that had been chosen. He came with updates and samples of other orders to assure the quality to us. His product had been impressive with quality and accuracy in design and the assurance of an honest deal. This took a few weeks, and then he delivered for prompt payment. Now that was worth doing and reflected a good and fair price with triple the value outside India. Every extra rupee was going for more rugs. He set his eye on a transistor radio we took to India from Germany. This had been the price he would produce yet his most precious design, if we would trade it on a barter arrangement. It was unavailable in India, and he was hot on it, gave us a great product for in exchange. All these rugs are still in my house and look as good as new fifty years later. I look back at the honor this man displayed, my respect to a man like him. He does honor for his country and his people.

The hotel kitchen continued to be challenged to deliver products foreigners were asking for. With my butcher training and connection, I asked my father to ship me a device to inject a salt brine to cure boneless muscles from the hind leg of the pig to create cooked ham. That worked like a charm, and additionally we set up a smoke room to add the preservation of smoke and the flavor. We did the same with large fillet of fish and salmon-type river fish.

Whenever I was working, I found a trusted helper by my side. It was the pot washer Anil! This young chap made every effort to be done with his duties to free up time so he could work with me. He was hungry to learn and performed every task as shown the first time. Impressive, but since he came from the lowest caste, his chances to be a cook had been nonexistent. Anil impressed me, learned very quickly, and should have been promoted were it not for the social order in India.

The day came when we lost the soup cook. A replacement had to be hired; however, the thought of promoting Anil did not leave my mind. I spoke to the executive chef on the possibility of promoting him and simply ignore the rule of the Indian caste system. He also had witnessed his diligent efforts and supported my idea.

All we needed now was to have management sign off on it. The food and beverage director signed on to the plan, being an Italian national. He also had no firm commitment to this unorthodox system, and the general manager supported it also. The paperwork had to go to the Indian Ownership Management for approval. On the paperwork, we purposely omitted Anil’s previous position of pot washer but was labeled with a French terminology casserollier, which looked like a low-skilled line cook. Much like a pantryman. It worked! The sign-off from the personal office came, and we made Anil a cook. Anil is now a cook! Uproar came from all the other cooks; this was not acceptable, and the protest escalated to the threat of a walkout.

We contained commotion inside the kitchen and then called the bluff. Okay, go on and leave your precious job. You will lose employment as you exit door. Tomorrow we will have hundreds of candidates in the parking lot for selection and interviews. They thought about it, and with the realization of being unemployed or working for some local place, they came to the realization to be better off to tolerate this for now. The bluff had worked; no one left the job, and peace was once again restored.

We could see that Anil was never fully accepted, received threats, and was sabotaged when he was working on a project alone. Bad language and harassment, he just shrugged it off. He was a strong young man and immensely proud of his accomplishment and job performance.