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love the story of Wallace Simpson. It’s my favorite romance.”
    “This Wallace could also induce a king to relinquish his crown,” said Rafael with a leer. “She is stunningly beautiful.”
    I could tell Susannah was fighting back a frown.
    I didn’t want to mention Barry’s remark to me that he would get revenge on Kuchen by getting him fired. I also failed to bring up Arliss saying “I work with knifes” after Kuchen scolded him. Wallace might be a beauty for all I knew, but even with that enticement, I couldn’t very well expect Rafael to want the garde manger position at Schnitzel if he thought the staff might be homicidal.
    And I did want him to have it, although I can’t imagine why; I hardly knew the guy.

13

    I awoke Sunday morning happy to be in my own bed and thinking about Dolly whom I hoped would be sharing it with me that evening.
    Then I thought about les misérables working at Schnitzel that day. My association with an haute cuisine restaurant had me using the few French phrases I knew even though I wasn’t trying to do so.
    My mind eventually turned to breakfast. My tradition is to eat on Sunday mornings the sort of breakfast I cannot eat every day without damage to my waistline. 150 pounds is not exactly svelte on a 5’ 6” frame, but I manage to maintain both my weight and my 32 inch waist by walking almost everywhere I go and by enjoying chorizo breakfast tacos only once a week.
    I slice the skins of the little devils and squeeze the contents into a frying pan over a medium flame. As the sausage begins to heat, it releases a fragrant orange liquid – pork fat and spices, no doubt – but I like to think of it as flavored cooking oil. Perfect for scrambling the eggs. Then throw in some jalapeños, diced potatoes and onions and stir until the ingredients have become close and warm friends. Put the mixture between folded tacos, garnish with fresh cilantro, and you have breakfast fit for a rey.
    And a lot better than Gebratener Leberkäse.
    Which started me thinking about the whole idea of haute cuisine. Coquille Saint-Jacques sounds like haute cuisine, but it’s just scallops and mushrooms in a cream sauce. If the scallops are rubbery and the cream sauce gummy, it’s awful. Calling it Coquille Saint-Jacques can’t disguise the taste.
    Breakfast tacos sound like something you’d get from a drive-thru or a sidewalk cart, but when they’re prepared properly with fresh ingredients, they are just as delicious as Coquille Saint-Jacques. Even moreso in Albuquerque because you can’t get fresh scallops here.
    Unfortunately, my meditation on food delayed my cooking so that when Miss Gladys showed up with one of her infamous casseroles, I couldn’t use the ‘I just ate’ excuse.
    “I swear people will think I’m a heathen, Hubert, but I just don’t enjoy church like I did when Guy was alive. Of course I still go to most of the Wednesday covered-dish suppers. Do you think that counts?”
    “Some people get worked up debating whether you should go on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. My guess is God doesn’t care what day you choose.”
    Her pale blue eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Marsha Wilkes would take issue with you on that. She was one of those Seventh Day Adventists, but she surely could cook. This is her famous breakfast casserole.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She made it with meat made out of soybeans. Can you believe that?”
    Gladys Claiborne runs a gift shop two doors west of me in the same building. She and her shop are as much a part of Old Town as the Gazebo and the Church even though she’s a Texan. Her husband left her well-off when he died, and I think the shop is more a hobby than a source of income. Which allows her to spend more time cooking than selling embroidered tea cozies and crocheted chili peppers.
    Gladys views me as a man who doesn’t have a wife to cook for him, so I’m a frequent recipient of her chaffing dish largesse. Many of Gladys’