Read The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier for Free Online

first name was Gutxiarkaitz, but—”
    “Huh?”
    “It means ‘little rock’ in Basque.”
    “How do you spell it?”
    “Just like it sounds. But the point is he named my father Frank because he wanted him to have a traditional name.”
    “The Obama girls are Sasha and Malia. Are those traditional names?”
    “Sure. Sasha is the Slavic version of Alexandra, and Malia is the Hawaiian version of Maria. But the important thing is they aren’t made-up names with no history.”
    “Why do you know so much about names?”
    “Because my mother has a baby name book and discusses it with me every time I go home. Just after she shows me the catalog of wedding dresses,” she said despondently.
    “Sorry.”
    “It’s not like I’m not trying. I’d love to get married and have children, but I can’t seem to find the right man.”
    I took a bite of a crispy chip with snappy salsa.
    “What about you, Hubie?”
    “I can’t find the right man either, although Chris was definitely interested.”
    She threw a chip at me, but I managed to dodge it. Chris was the guy she had been interested in until he made a pass at me.
    I washed the snack down with the last of my margarita before musing, “I wonder if I’m marriage material. After all of these years living alone…” I didn’t finish the sentence because I didn’t know what to say.
    “Can I get you two a refill?” asked Angie.
    I did know what to say to that. I looked up at Angie’s bright smile and said, “Absolutely.” Then I said to Susannah, “I don’t know if I can survive for weeks away from this place. I almost didn’t make it through one day.”
    “You didn’t tell me what you did.”
    “I spent most of my time conversing with the misfits on the staff trying to find inspiration.”
    “And did you?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I’m inspired not to work in a restaurant.” I wish I hadn’t said it. It may have jinxed me.
    After Angie brought our drinks, Susannah said, “I’d like to hear about the misfits at Schnitzel. I love restaurant gossip.”
    “Well, it starts at the top. I get the impression no one respects Molinero because he’s not a food guy.”
    “It’s always like that, Hubie. It’s that ‘resent the people you need’ thing. Every restaurant needs a Molinero, the money guy. Like producers for films. Director and actors don’t like producers because they aren’t artists, but you couldn’t do a movie without a producer.”
    “Why couldn’t Kuchen start the restaurant?”
    “He probably doesn’t have the money it would take. We’re talking millions for a place like Schnitzel. And even if he did have it, he wouldn’t be crazy enough to risk it in a business that’s likely to fail.”
    “So he has to find a rich guy like Molinero who is crazy enough to do that?”
    “No. Molinero doesn’t put up the money himself. He puts together a syndicate of investors.”
    “How do you find investors for a business that’s likely to fail?”
    She shrugged. “People invest in films because they like to think they’re in show business. Maybe some people think owning a restaurant is glamorous.”
    “I’d like to own Dos Hermanas, but not for the glamour. I’d just sit here all day and sip margaritas.”
    “No you wouldn’t. What you’d do is work your butt off.”
    “I’m beginning to realize that. Kuchen is a real slave driver. Everyone hates him.”
    Susannah looked over my shoulder. “Ice is here.”
    For a moment I thought Angie had brought more cubes for our drinks.
    He was a tall guy with close-cropped hair and a somewhat blocky nose, but handsome in an odd way. He approached at a relaxed pace and said, “You must be Hubie.”
    I acknowledged as much and we shook hands.
    Susannah said, “Hubie was just telling me that everyone at Schnitzel seems to hate the Chef de cuisine.”
    “I’m not surprised,” he said, looking at me as he sat down. “Head chefs are notoriously unpopular with their staffs. Most of them have