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
San Francisco — July 1851
Manon was finishing preparing a hearty fish soup loaded with chunks of local bass, mussels, clams and oysters in our ship’s galley when I returned in late afternoon. “What took you so long, Big Boy? Your Manon slaves away in the kitchen while you eat Italian goodies and drink lots of red wine, yes?” She said, waving her big wooden spoon at my blushed nose and rosy cheeks and gave me that “naughty boy” look of hers. I hid Salterini’s bag of salamis and other foods behind my back and threw her my best “boys will be boys” sheepish look. We both laughed.
“What are you hiding behind your back, eh? Better be something special for Manon.” She said as she slowly and seductively loosened and discarded her cook’s apron and released the pins in her hair. She gave me a wistful smile as she let her lustrous black tresses tumble down her shoulders and back, then crooked her finger for me to approach. As I reached out to take her in my arms, she raised her finger to say “wait.” Then she pointed to her belly which now showed the presence of our child. She did a pirouette so I could embrace her from behind. I massaged her belly and whispered in her ear, “Je t’aime.”
“And what about your baby?” She said nuzzling my cheek with her head.
“I’ll love him too, when he gets here,” I whispered.
“And what if your baby is a girl, huh?”
“I’ll be a jealous Papa. If she’s as beautiful as you, I’ll have to keep all her suitors at bay even while she’s a kid. She’ll be our pride and joy.”
“You promise?” She said turning to kiss me.
“Yes. And if she’s got your character and spunk, she’ll probably be able to handle the boys on her own. So we’ll just have to wait and see what we get, won’t we?”
“The doctor said maybe we gonna get two babies. Lots of twins in my family. So what do you say to that, Big Boy?”
I gave her a long, lingering kiss before replying. “You really are full of surprises. How could he know so early?”
“He doesn’t know. He just said it’s a big possibility because of my family history,” she said looking me in the eye.
“You know what the Americans say, ‘two for the price of one is a better deal,’ so we should consider ourselves lucky if blessed with twins.”
“Our kid or kids were made with love and passion in Valparaiso and they have loving parents, and that’s probably more than most kids could hope for.”
Manon looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Since you gonna be such a good papa, maybe we should have triplets, non?” We both laughed.
“We can try to add another tonight, if Manon is not too tired, non?” I said mimicking her, tongue-in-cheek.
“Well let’s see what’s in that bag you been hiding. If Manon likes what you bring her, then maybe Big Boy earns a reward with his pregnant wife, non?”
I handed her the satchel full of Italian goodies and the two bottles of Tuscan red wine and recounted my meeting with Luigi Salterini.
“So, he wants to trade for shellfish and other food, yes?”
“I am sure he does. His eyes got bigger than yours at the mention of fresh clams, baby squid, mussels, scallops and shrimps. He was licking his lips at the thought of calamari fritti, pasta con frutti di mare and all the other dishes he could prepare with shellfish. He’s obviously tired of eating and preparing dishes with oysters which every cook can obtain easily. He can get some
