GOLD FEVER Part Three. Ken Salter
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a Chinese gentleman in the garb and hat of a Chinese merchant that we’d seen in Little China in the city, called out to us, “Rice wine.” While we sipped the pleasant wine, our host began serving dinner to his local customers. He brought heaping plates of piping hot meats and mixed vegetables with different sauces in little dishes, bowls of noodles, plates of rice seasoned with saffron and even a round metal pot with a lid that looked like it contained stewed meats and vegetables.
We watched the Chinese eat while we alternated sips of rice wine with sips of hot green tea which was served to us and the other diners. With long wooden chopsticks they loaded small bowls with rice and added meat and vegetables from the serving plates along with sauces including dark, pungent soya sauce from a round brown-glazed pottery pot with a tiny pouring spout. Once the little bowl was full of rice and meat or vegetables, the men put the bowls up to their chins and scooped the food into their mouths using their chopsticks as shovels. There were no knives, forks or spoons; all was done by manipulating the chopsticks.
Our host served us a large bowl of seasoned rice and a platter of meat and mixed green vegetables in a sauce of red peppers and small black beans. Following the lead of other diners, we used the chopsticks to scoop rice into the small bowl and poured soya sauce over the rice. Picking up pieces of meat and vegetables with the chopsticks was more challenging. Our first efforts were unsuccessful as the food kept slipping out of the sticks as we tried to lift the morsels to our rice bowls. Our host came running with ceramic soup spoons for us to use. Manon waved them off. She held up her chopsticks and motioned for him to arrange them properly in her right hand. He seemed reluctant to touch her fingers, but we both urged him on non-verbally. He went back to the kitchen and brought to our table another pair of chopsticks. He demonstrated the proper way to hold, pick up and carry the food morsels to the rice bowl. After several errant tries Manon succeeded. She gave our host a big smile of gratitude for the lesson. By now, all the diners had stopped eating to watch the amusing scene. When we’d both loaded our rice bowls and started to eat Chinese style, three of the onlookers bowed their heads to us to acknowledge our willingness to eat with chopsticks rather than soup spoons.
The meat in the first dish was tender wild pork in a very spicy and tasty black bean sauce. The red pepper specks in the sauce warned us not to eat the small, whole red peppers served with the dish. We were surprised at how crispy the cauliflower and green beans were.
The next plate contained tender, diced chicken bits in a ginger sauce mixed with fresh peas in the pod. The last plate was heaped with doughy dumplings. Each was filled with a savory sauce and tidbits of meat. Manon wanted to know how the Chinese managed to cook the vegetable al dente—crispy like the Italians. When it was time to pay the bill, Manon motioned towards the kitchen screen and mimed “to look.” Before our host could react, Manon was up and disappeared behind the screen. She returned to our table shortly with a triumphant look.
Our meal with rice wine cost us $4.75. I gave our host a generous tip as Manon wanted to keep the very decorative rice wine bottle to use as a flower pot. We sauntered hand-in-hand slowly back to our hotel. Our tummies were full and the wine left us pleasantly flushed; we hardly noticed the spartan nature of our small hotel room. We tumbled into bed and in the morning hoped we hadn’t made another kid or two.
Henri Ricard was enthused about my plan to start an express company to service the needs of French and Chilean miners in the north. “Now we have only Wells Fargo and Adams express companies servicing this area. They’ll carry French gold but not our mail or parcels. The Chileans don’t have anyone to deliver their mail. As you know from your first trip here, our little mail service for French miners is dependent on someone bringing the mail, papers, and parcels to the hotel and someone to deliver them to the miners, most of whom are too far from Marysville to provision here or pick up mail. So, you’d provide a needed service. How would it work?” Ricard asked, lighting a cigar from the box I’d brought him.
“I’ve an agreement with the French Consul that he’ll transfer our miners’ gold to French banks in Sacramento and San Francisco once it gets that far. What I need here and in Nevada City are reliable and trustworthy assayers to assay our miners’ gold and transform it into standard-weight ingots that can be stored in vaults, sold on the market, exported or sold to the U.S. government mint they’re setting up in San Francisco. The banks will pay a premium for gold in standard ingots just like they do for gold coins. I’m sure you know about the fortune David Broderick made buying gold and minting $5 shag coins containing only $4.00 in gold. I know from visiting our mining camps that our miners don’t trust the American banks or the big express companies. So, I want to provide a reliable and trustworthy service. Is there an assayer here I could trust?” I asked.
Ricard paused to reflect. “No, the only assayer here works for Wells Fargo and they don’t do any more than assay samples and weigh gold. There’s more and more hard rock mining now that placer gold is petering out. Big mining companies are using hydraulic monitors bigger than cannons to blow off the overburden and expose bedrock and literally hose the gold into the river for recovery. They have their own assayers. There is an independent assayer in Nevada City and most of the gold from the Yuba River goes there. I think his name is James Ott. Since you’re going there, you should talk with him. From what I’ve heard, he could be your man.”
Ricard has a guy who sorts mail alphabetically and stores it in cubbyholes for miners to pick up, and they can also mail letters when in town. We’d have to set up the express office in Nevada City and ship mail to Marysville from there. Ricard agreed to cooperate in this arrangement. He’d direct miners with gold to sell, and parcels and mail to send or pick up, to my office in Nevada City as soon as I established it.
Manon and I spent the afternoon visiting stores that sold mining supplies and equipment. Manon used her charm and good looks to solicit confirmed orders for denim aprons as well as work pants. “If you weren’t indispensable in your restaurant, you’d be our top salesperson for our denim products,” I teased.
“Ha, Big Boy, remember I own fifty percent of our profit from the venture. California is a community property state. So, you better behave or I’ll own one hundred percent with our twins if Papa is a bad boy,” she said in mock seriousness, then shook her finger at me and pointed to her reticule bulging with orders and bank drafts for fifty percent down payment and promissory notes for the balance upon receipt of the goods. Hawthorne had drafted the legal papers for the trip.
“How could I possibly be a bad boyo with my beautiful wife watching my every move like a hawk eyeing its prey? I don’t even dare look at any of the pretty ladies or señoritas on the make, but every male in town undresses you with his eyes and drools at the thought of getting you in his bed,” I retorted. Even the Chinese men in the restaurant couldn’t keep their eyes off of Manon’s mop of curly black hair and full figure even though she dressed very modestly.
“Ha, Big Boy, maybe it will teach you to appreciate what you’ve got and no more solo trips to places where sexy señoritas entertain naughty travelers, yes?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said in my little boy voice. Instead of the cheeky reply I expected, Manon dashed into a tent-covered shop past two Chinese men in black cotton trousers with long, braided queues hanging down their back; they were seated on rickety stools and playing a dice game on a shipping crate bearing Chinese characters in beautiful calligraphy. I entered the store meekly. Manon held a large, conically shaped metal item in her hands and was trying to bargain for it in the pidgin English she’d used in the restaurant. Her efforts were to no avail. I pulled out my poke and took out a silver dollar and held it up. The vendor, an older man in embroidered silk trousers and tunic nodded “no.” I held up two fingers; same response. He nodded his assent to three fingers. I handed over 3 Mexican silver coins and we left with the new item.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s what the Chinese cook used to fry our vegetables last night; he dropped cooking oil into this pan over a hot fire, added vegetables and quickly stirred them in the cooking oil. He cooked them the way we do abalone—hot, oiled skillet and only 30 seconds each side. The bowl shape of the pan is more practical for vegetables than a skillet,” Manon said beaming. We later learned the cooker was called