GOLD FEVER Part Two. Ken Salter
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a large tent. I admired his friendly, sociable selling manner as his customers selected his appetizing foods and their favorite wines. For some customers he knew, he marked their purchases in a ledger for payment later, while others paid in gold dust or coin.
Once the transactions were completed and the little store emptied of customers, I made my presence known.
“I’m pleased to see you survived the fire and are still in business,” I said in French and thrust out my hand to him. “Bravo!” I added as he pumped my hand with gusto. Despite his losses, this small, full-fleshed man with rosy cheeks and bulbous nose the color of the wine he sold looked cheerful and upbeat.
“We Italians are used to hard times. That’s why we left Italy for California. The Ducks aren’t going to drive us out. We’ll rebuild and let the Committee of Vigilance stretch their necks at the end of a rope,” he said with conviction.
“I’m glad you and the rest of the community feel that way. The French merchants are of the same opinion. Will it take long to rebuild your trattoria?”
“Hopefully, not too long. I have two nephews who managed to strike some good gold in Mariposa. With what I’ve saved and their help, I can build again. The problem is we are last on the list to get materials and skilled carpenters. We are merchants, not artisans, so we must wait our turn until the Yankee gambling houses and stores are rebuilt and back in business. Until then, we sell out of our lots and keep the bad guys out.”
“I’m surprised to see so much good merchandise for sale. I would have thought it would have burned with the businesses,” I said pointing to his panini sandwiches and the heaps of sausages, salamis and other goods.
He laughed and rubbed his ample belly. “When you live and work so close to crooks and robbers, you don’t leave all your eggs in one basket. We learned our lesson after the first fire and knew there would be more. We hired a ship to store our goods. My nephews and others live on the ship and guard it where it’s anchored in the bay. We take off what we need or can sell each day and nothing more.”
“Smart,” I beamed. “That’s what my wife and her associates do as well. We have our ship docked at the Long Wharf and pull up the gang plank each evening. She sells breakfast and lunch to the dock workers and travelers going to and from Sacramento on the paddle steamers that leave from the wharf. She’d like to supplement her French offerings with some Italian dishes as well. She would like to offer Italian sausage and salami sandwiches and pasta with a marinara sauce and cheese from Parma. Is it possible to get a steady supply of these items?”
Salterini pointed to a rough stool and motioned me to sit down. From behind the counter he pulled out a half-full, corked bottle of Chianti and swiftly filled two glasses. “We’re not gonna discuss business without a glass of wine and some of my best smoked sausage.” From behind the counter, he pulled out a wooden cutting board and large butcher’s knife and began to slice one of the sausages on his counter. That done, he popped a large slice in his mouth and washed it down with a healthy slug of wine.
“Ah bellisimo. Que combinazione—salciccia e vino rosso, che divino, no? Sorry, I got carried away. Please try some sausage with the wine; it’s almost as good as red wine with Italian cheeses. Sadly, so many of our cheeses don’t keep during the voyage through the tropics. Only the hard parmesan cheeses come through okay.” He hacked off a big sliver of parmesan from a huge round and thrust it at me. “Try this with the wine,” he said with big grin as he shoveled another slice of sausage into his mouth.
After sampling both the sausage and cheese with a refilled glass of wine, I beamed my appreciation. “Divine it is as you say. It’s almost as good as a glass of Gigondas with a slice of saucisson sec de l’Ardèche or an aged fromage de Salers.” I said tongue-in-cheek.
Salterini guffawed so hard he spit out his mouth full of wine and sausage despite an effort to control it. “My friend, you must be kidding. You French have very good wines and cheeses but not better than the best from Italy,” he said seriously as if Italian honor was at stake.
“Let’s agree that the French and Italian wines and cheeses are the best in the world,” I said in a spirit of compromise. “We can drink to that, non?”
Salterini quickly topped up our glasses and we toasted both countries’ wines and cheeses. “I know my wife would agree. I’d like to buy one of each you sell along with a hunk of parmesan so she can sample them for herself. Do you think you could supply the ones she prefers on a regular basis?” I asked.
“But of course, my friend. She’s that cute little sailor girl you bring to my trattoria, yes?” I nodded yes. He took a white crayon and marked a figure on the skin of several different sausages and salamis. “I mark a special price for your principessa. We maybe can trade food if she has good meat and seafood for me when my restaurant is rebuilt, eh?”
I nodded my assent. “We get a weekly delivery of deer and boar meat from French hunters along with duck, quail, partridge and other game birds.” I paused to let him salivate while I contemplated the effects of the red wine on his bulbous nose. “And of course she has regular deliveries of fresh shellfish for her fish stews—shrimp, oysters, clams, mussels, scallops and often tasty salmon and trout, and of course, fresh baby squid and crab when in season.” Salterini’s rapt attention to each item I mentioned indicated that he was clearly hooked on the prospect of fresh calamari fritti and pasta dishes loaded with shellfish.
While he savored the prospect of preparing Italian cuisine with our products, I opened a new subject. “You said your nephews were miners in the Mariposa area. Would they know someone familiar with that area who speaks and reads French? My assistant left for New York and I’m looking for someone who can help me in my legal business and my contract to deliver mail to French mining camps in the southern placers.”
Salterini opened a new bottle of Italian red wine from Tuscany as he pondered my question, then poured more wine. “My nephew, Gino Lamberti, might be very interested. He speaks French and Spanish as well as the English he picked up here. He worked in Genoa as a shipping clerk and is good with figures. He went often to Nizza where they speak Italian and French. He’s not too excited to work on the ship or in my restaurant. He knows the mining camps in Calaveras, Tuolumne and Mariposa counties. He and his cousin worked with both Chilean and French miners. He might just be your man. Would you like to meet him?”
“I’d love to meet him. How soon do you think you could arrange it?”
“I can send a message to the ship this evening. Where can he meet you?”
“See if he can join me for lunch tomorrow at 1 p.m. at the French restaurant, Les Bons Amis; it’s on Dupont Street past the plaza on the right hand side.”
“He’ll be there. He loves eating in restaurants and with almost all Italian restaurants destroyed, he’ll jump at the chance to meet you in a restaurant.” Salterini hurriedly packaged the salamis, sausages and cheese and added a couple of bottles Italian red wine and thrust it at me while motioning newly arrived clients to sample the few pieces of sausage he had not polished off with the wine. He waved off my attempt to pay. “We’ll settle when your principessa decides what to order. Make her sample my food with our Italian red wine only,” he said with a wicked grin.
The satchel he’d packed was heavy but my heart light as I headed back to our ship on the wharf. Manon would be delighted to sample Salterini’s wares and know he could supply her needs. I was looking forward to our sampling session together and the lunch meeting the next day.
California Gold Rush Journal
CHAPTER TWO