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California Gold Rush Journal

PART 2

CHAPTER FOUR

San Francisco — July 1851

I made my way up Commercial Street to check my bank balance with Adams Express Co. and then moseyed up to Dupont Street to take a coffee and hear the latest gossip from Pierre-Louis at his restaurant before checking on my partnership to fabricate and sell Bear’s Grease Pomade. All the morning newspapers screamed headlines about the James Stuart affair. As usual, Pierre-Louis waited for a lull in business so he could join me for coffee and shoot the breeze.

“So my friend, any success in partnering with a local lawyer?” Pierre-Louis said as he served me a dark coffee and poured water into his glass of anise-flavored drink.

I chuckled. “I think I hooked one despite his grumbling at working for my hourly rate and condescending to share fees with a lowly clerc de notaire. I hope he he’s not like my former boss who let me do all the work and paid me a pittance.”

“How did you get him?”

“He dropped his fee for a small job he did for the French Consulate, so I knew he’s desperate for paying work. He’ll change his tune quick enough when he meets his two beautiful clients. Let’s hope Teri doesn’t eat him alive and scare him off with her glaring stare. She’s still mad as a hatter at men the way Raoul treated her.”

Pierre-Louis struggled not to choke on his drink. “So you’re gonna snare him with your two vixens. What if he falls for one?”

My turn to guffaw. “If he does, he’ll have the hardest case of his life. A once spurned woman will put a ring in this one’s nose and lead him to the trough. What’s the latest on the James Stuart affair? The papers are screaming about a new arrest.”

“A member of the Committee recognized a man calling himself “Stephens” as the real James Stuart and they took him into custody to interrogate him. The Committee sent a relay of fast riders to Marysville to try to stop the execution of the man named Berdue that they sent to be hanged.”

“They’re sure they got the right man this time?”

“They’re sure, but all hell’s gonna break out if the Sheriff in Marysville hangs an innocent man railroaded by the Committee to the gallows. It plays into the hands of the Governor and his cronies who’ve been dragging their heels at reigning them in. According to what I heard this morning, the Committee has decided to try “Stephens” here for murder and a whole series of other crimes so they can hang him straight away. They even let him choose his own lawyer to defend him.”

“Who would risk the wrath of the Committee to defend a sheriff killer?” I asked incredulous thinking of my recent interview with Thomas Hawthorne.

“Well in light of the recent hanging of the Mexican woman, Juanita, by the crazed mob in Downieville, the Committee has decided to grant the accused the same rights he would have in a criminal court. Stuart asked to be defended by an attorney named Frank Pixley who defended him at his first trial. Pixley applied to a judge he knows for a writ of habeas corpus to compel the Committee to release Stuart to the corrupt civil authorities where he could get him off on a technicality by bribery. The Committee member I spoke to said Pixley was rotten to the core. They have heard testimony that Stuart paid Pixley $730.00 to arrange his escape from the hangman’s noose.”

“Oh La La,” I chimed in. “The plot thickens like a 5 Cent novel the street hawkers sell. No wonder the town’s atwitter.”

“The plot gets even more sleazy. Stuart arranged with his mistress, a “Mrs. Hogan,” to store goods stolen by the Sydney Ducks at her crib for stolen property. They were planning to escape together to Los Angeles and take a boat with the loot to Mexico before he was caught. When they arrested her, she was wearing a tintype photo of Stuart on a chain around her neck. The Committee thinks he’ll confess his crimes if they agree to let her go.”

Pierre-Louis had to attend to newly arrived clients, so I decided to continue my stroll along Dupont Street to visit the French Pharmacy on Broadway owned by Bernard and Françoise Lefèbvre. I had supplied them with bear’s fat and oil and they’d agreed to prepare and market a bear’s grease pomade for slicking the hair of the local dandies and card sharks and a scented bear’s oil sold as both a hair product and a cure-all remedy for hair. Mme. Lefèbvre threw me a friendly smile with her milky-blue eyes, then nodded in the direction of her husband at his rear counter where he was mixing remedies.

“I think you will be very pleased with Bernard’s results.” She proudly handed me a medium sized porcelain pot with paper labeled top that read “LEFÈBVRE’S CALIFORNIA BEAR’S GREASE/ Made With The Fat of California Bears According To A New, Secret Formula/ Guaranteed Superior To Any Imported Competitor.” The text formed an oval around the lithographed image of a California Black Bear sitting on his haunches and growling to show his ferocious teeth and massive front claws.

“Go ahead, open the top and smell it,” she prompted as her husband joined us at the sales counter.

The thick, greasy concoction smelled of lavender and rosemary. “What do you think?” Bernard Lefèbvre said with a twinkle in his eyes while tugging on his superbly waxed mustache.

“I like the label and the price of $3.25 a pot. I trust your judgment as to the product. I’ve never used it myself.”

He laughed and put his arm around his pleasantly plump wife who beamed with pride at her husband’s accomplishment. “I had to play with it quite awhile to get the right mix of scent and viscosity. It’s lighter and easier to apply than most of the imported bear’s grease and our price will undercut the imports by 30%, but we’ll need to advertise to attract clients for our new product.”

“I agree. If you give me the stencil for the paper label, I’ll order a small classified advertisement in all the local newspapers and have my assistant distribute small flyers and broadsheets to all the gambling establishments and saloons. I’ll have the printing bills sent to your store and you can pay them out our profits. I expect our margin of profit will be substantial, right?”

Mme. Lefèbvre gave the game away in her anxious glance to her husband. We hadn’t discussed the selling price of the product or what it would cost to make it when we agreed to fabricate and sell it on a 50/50 basis. As I supplied the bear’s grease, there had to be a substantial profit as porcelain pots, paper labels, scents and advertising in this expensive town could not be more than $1.00 a pot, if that. I had seen ads in the Eastern newspapers for highly scented bear’s grease at 75 cents for a large pot.

Bernard Lefèbvre hesitated just a second too long before replying, “Yes, we’ll have a nice profit eventually. But the start up costs are substantial.” He began ticking off the elements before I interrupted him.

“My research indicates our finished product shouldn’t cost more than 50 cents a pot as I provide the bear’s grease and you developed the formula. Right?”

Lefèbvre’s normally confident demeanor cracked. Still dressed as dapper as ever, he now looked stooped and his voice had become more shrill. “Well, we might get our costs down low as you suggest when we have clientele and can sell lots of pots. But the advertising you suggest will be costly, won’t it?” He said in a whiny voice.

“Initially, it may be costly. But, if you expect to corner a lucrative market, you have to promote your product. I’ll have my assistant return your stencil and a list of advertisements and the costs I negotiate. I’ll take this pot to show prospective buyers. Of course, if you feel the start up costs will be more than you can afford, I’m sure I could secure a silent partner to cover these costs for a percentage of the profits.”

“Oh no,” Lefèbvre blurted out. “We can handle the costs.”

After Mme. Lefèbvre handed me the stencil, I put it and the bear grease pot in my satchel and wished them a pleasant day.

My next stop was my cubby hole of an office at the back of a wholesale pharmaceutical store. Sophie Benson, the saleswoman for the shop, smiled sweetly and informed me that my new assistant had dropped by and would return shortly. I showed Sophie the bear’s grease pot with the paper label. She opened the top and extracted a small sample on her finger and teased it between two fingers, then smelled the sample. “It’s very nice. As good or better than the imported ones. The label’s nice, but not nearly as attractive as the blue and white transfers on the French pots. But, the low price should assure it will sell well.”

While waiting for Gino, I added text for the ad bills and broadsheets to the bear’s grease stencil and drew a list of newspapers to place the ad in the classified section where most merchants advertised. When Gino arrived, I sent him off to the printer and charged him with placing the ads and arranging for the distribution of the ad bills and broadsheets once we had printed copies. That would keep him busy for a couple of days while I prepared instructions for how to sort and distribute the bags of French miners’ mail starting to fill up my small office. I worked on this unpleasant task until Gino returned from the printer. I showed him how to match letters to the passenger lists of French ships provided by the consulate.

I left Gino to work alone while I returned to our ship. Gino and his uncle would dine with us this evening and I wanted to give Manon a helping hand in the preparation. Teri and Giselle were packing up their stands after another successful day selling Manon’s food and our wines and spirits. Giselle’s dog, Fido, a piebald terrier and excellent rat killer, eyed me suspiciously from behind Giselle’s skirts. He was prepared to die in battle to protect his mistress and he constantly growled lowly and bared his teeth when male clients got too close to Giselle. Her cat, Gamelle Boy, eyed me absently from the top of the gangway. He waited on his daily perch for Giselle to fill his bowl with scraps from the food trays.

Manon was delighted to see me return early and without the smell of wine or liquor on my breath and the telltale signs of having dined in someone else’s restaurant while she labored in our kitchen preparing meals for tomorrow’s clients and guests tonight.

“So Chéri, did you remember to chill the white wine for dinner?”

“Not yet. But the buckets are ready to be lowered into the bay.” Everything will be ready for our apéro.” I picked up a wooden spoon and tried to sample the delicious concoction bubbling in a large casserole.

“Ah, no sneak preview for the naughty waiter,” as she grabbed my spoon and shook it to scold me. “Big boy has a lot of work to do before he samples any of Manon’s wares,” she said with a pixyish look full of innuendo that suggested a special treat might be in store after our dinner party if all went well.

“Oui, oui, mon capitaine, I shall follow your orders to the letter right into bed,” I gave her a smart-alecky salute, then scooted out of the galley before she could shoo me out with her spoon.

Manon’s menu for the soirée was a secret, but my short foray in the galley tipped her hand that she was preparing a special New Orleans gumbo for the main course. Giselle’s selection of white wines and champagnes from her ex-husband’s stock guaranteed it would be a memorable evening as Manon sought to impress her potential Italian associate.

With the table set, the wine chilled and dining table arranged with little name tags on plates for seating, Teri and Giselle disappeared to their cabins to dress for dinner. I almost dropped my jaw when they returned. Giselle had eschewed a traditional matron’s dress billowed out with petticoats or hoops in favor of a slinky, form-fitting, long-sleeved satin dress that emphasized her ample curves and whose bodice gave brief, but tantalizing glimpses of her ample bosom when she leaned forward. She’d done her deep auburn hair with red highlights in a lose chignon that allowed curly tendrils to escape to both sides of her face. She looked stunning. She would have outshone even Empress Joséphine at a royal ball.

Not to be outdone, Teri appeared in her high-neck, fiery-red Argentine dress with slits on both sides that hugged her body and showcased her delectable coppery legs and thighs when she walked or crossed her legs. She wore her golden tresses loose to her back and sported a white carnation behind her left ear. My, oh my, what a treat for the Italians. I was relieved that we dined aboard and not in town where these two ladies would cause a riot even in a respectable restaurant.

Our guests were right on time. Salterini carried two bottles—one of Italian sparkling wine and the other a vintage Barolo. His nephew’s arms were full of red roses for Manon. Manon introduced her two associates to her guests. Salterini’s eyes glowed large with surprise and satisfaction as he kissed first Giselle’s and then Teri’s hand. “Che Belle Donne,” he muttered to himself. Gino Lamberti coolly assessed the charms of the two single women and following his uncle’s lead, bowed and brought each woman’s hand to his lips. After holding Teri’s hand just a tad too long, he snatched a single red rose from Manon’s bouquet, clipped the stem with his Bowie knife and replaced Teri’s white carnation with the rose. It was clear Gino was making a statement of interest, but given Teri’s recent castigation of all would-be admirers, I was surprised to see her reward him with a gracious smile and little curtsey.

The scene was not lost on Manon, who quickly reshuffled the seating chart to allow Gino and Teri to sit face-to-face at the dinner table. She placed Giselle at one end of the table between me and Salterini and she sat next to Teri on the side nearest the galley. While both Italians spoke conversational French, Gino realized that Teri spoke haltingly and immediately switched to Spanish when addressing her.

For starters, Manon served savory crab cakes made with fresh, local Dungeness crab which we washed down with a vintage Chablis wine. The main course was Manon’s surprise New Orleans Creole gumbo that she was preparing when I intruded in her kitchen.

“Mama mia” exulted Salterini after a couple of mouthfuls. “I can taste the parsley, pepper, bay leaf and thyme, but there’s something else I never taste before. So good. What is it?”

Manon laughed. “It’s the secret of a real New Orleans gumbo. It’s called “file.” The Choctaw Indians in Louisiana grind leaves from the sassafras tree and make this special spice that flavors the gumbo. The French Canadian Creoles who settled the mouth of the Mississippi River learned the secret of the spice from the Choctaws. As there are lots of shrimp, crayfish and other shellfish in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, they devised special ways to prepare gumbos as they called their shellfish dishes and stews.”

“How can we get some of this secret “file” for our cooking?” Salterini asked hastily.

“Manon shook her finger at him as if he were a naughty boy. “You only get secrets if we work together, non?” She replied with a twinkle in her eye.

“How can an Italian gentleman resist the charms of la futura mamma. Especially, when she’s such a good cook. Your bambini are going to grow up in paradiso.” Looking at me, Salterini uncorked his bottle of Italian sparkling wine, filled our glasses and proposed a toast. “To the future of our Franco-Italiano alliance. May we prosper as associates and enjoy the fruits of our labors together as friends.”

We clinked glasses and attacked the scrumptious gumbo in earnest. During the toast, Gino’s eyes never left Teri’s, who reacted with raised eyebrows and an enigmatic smile that suggested she would not be adverse to courtship, but would be no easy conquest. Based on my knowledge of her treatment by her ex-Chilean boyfriend, he would have to take it slow and prove that he was not just another good looking Latin Romeo on the make. By working for me, he’d have a chance to prove himself.

We concluded our celebratory meal with a selection French cheeses—a Salers, a bleu d’Auvergne, and a tasty goat cheese made by a Frenchman and supplier to Pierre-Louis who had gone bust in the placers, but managed to buy a herd of goats on credit and returned to making cheese as he’d done in France. Delectable cheeses smeared on fresh baguettes and washed down with two bottles of 1840 Chateau Haut Brion cabernet sauvignon from Giselle’s stock topped off our wonderful dinner party. Manon was pleased with her successful soirée and saved my special “dessert” for our boudoir.

Photos of French Bear’s Grease Pot and B. Lefevre Pharmacy Pots dug in San Francisco (museum donation).