as though they were ready to fall apart from the outside, but to be hard, cold, nasty little pellets on the inside. And as for anything in volving eggs! Well, back East both Bill and I had been quite capable of turning out perfectly lovely soufflés— mountainous and fluffy—simply by mixing them up, pop ping them into a moderate oven, and forgetting them for forty-five minutes. Not so out here. With that devil-may- care bravery symbolic of the pioneer woman, I attempted quite a few soufflés during my early, or blindly irrational, days in the West. None ever got to the table. They either fell as flat as flannel cakes or else they exploded all over the oven, leaving me with a table of hungry guests and the alternative of whipping up some grilled cheese sandwiches or taking everyone out for lunch.
Many was the time I had to capitulate to that vicious old stove, toss in the towel, wash myself every place that showed, fluff my hair, change, and guide my flock of raven ing guests to the station wagon and thence to a good restaurant for lunch or—even more ruinous—for dinner. It was great fun for everybody, and of course, they got an elegant meal instead of my burnt offering, but it was murder on the exchequer.
Look at it this way: Rancho del Monte was a first-class establishment—not de luxe, but first class. Yet the rates were very low, all things considered. Bill and I charged between eight dollars and twelve dollars a day, depending on accommodations, and that included all three meals—first-class meals. So when the stove blew up or ran out of butane gas or when the main dish wouldn't do at all or overdid itself to a heap of ashes, it meant that the little hostess had to put on her gloves, smile, make a reservation at a local eatery—and not a hash wagon, but a first-class establishment—and pay the check with a wide, white, hos pitable grin.
I may be dead and forgotten as far as most of Santa Fe is concerned, but I'll always occupy a warm spot in the hearts of its restaurateurs. Many of them who were poor, struggling businessmen before our frontal attack on the West are now fixed for life owing almost exclusively to my experiments at the stove. And let me tell you, even though I am now poor and they are now rich, there is a certain satisfaction in seeing this headwaiter's new Cadillac, that chef's daughter going off to college, and knowing that I did it all in the kitchen of del Monte. It gives one the warm feeling of a rather down-at-the-heels fairy godmother.
However, let me point out once more that such a prac tice was absolutely ruinous. The average daily income from a guest was ten dollars, but if we had to take them all off to Hotel La Fonda, or the Pink Adobe, or to either of our good local night clubs—El Nido or the Pink Garter over in Lamy—or, if the meal I had planned was really cata strophic, off to La Dona Luz in Taos, and buy them a drink for their patience and understanding and then pick up the tab, it never came to less than five dollars a head; usually more. So you can see that many of our business days ended up in the red, even though we hadn't a vacancy in the house.
It was after a week of our first influx of guests that I caught my breath for long enough to sit back and examine our handiwork with a critical eye. And let me say quitefrankly I didn't like what I saw. It seemed to me we were working too hard at things we shouldn't be doing. We weren't taking care of our guests, we weren't entertaining them or being friends with them, we were simply providing for them—and not doing that any too well.
Believe me, I had never been so naive as to expect to be sitting decorously around the lounge in a diaphanous negligee, spouting brittle small-talk, and pouring tea from Bill's family's silver service. But, on the other hand, it had seemed to me that as hostess of the ranch I was expected to be more than a sullen slattern trudging gloomily from bedmaking to dishwashing and snarling at anyone
Many was the time I had to capitulate to that vicious old stove, toss in the towel, wash myself every place that showed, fluff my hair, change, and guide my flock of raven ing guests to the station wagon and thence to a good restaurant for lunch or—even more ruinous—for dinner. It was great fun for everybody, and of course, they got an elegant meal instead of my burnt offering, but it was murder on the exchequer.
Look at it this way: Rancho del Monte was a first-class establishment—not de luxe, but first class. Yet the rates were very low, all things considered. Bill and I charged between eight dollars and twelve dollars a day, depending on accommodations, and that included all three meals—first-class meals. So when the stove blew up or ran out of butane gas or when the main dish wouldn't do at all or overdid itself to a heap of ashes, it meant that the little hostess had to put on her gloves, smile, make a reservation at a local eatery—and not a hash wagon, but a first-class establishment—and pay the check with a wide, white, hos pitable grin.
I may be dead and forgotten as far as most of Santa Fe is concerned, but I'll always occupy a warm spot in the hearts of its restaurateurs. Many of them who were poor, struggling businessmen before our frontal attack on the West are now fixed for life owing almost exclusively to my experiments at the stove. And let me tell you, even though I am now poor and they are now rich, there is a certain satisfaction in seeing this headwaiter's new Cadillac, that chef's daughter going off to college, and knowing that I did it all in the kitchen of del Monte. It gives one the warm feeling of a rather down-at-the-heels fairy godmother.
However, let me point out once more that such a prac tice was absolutely ruinous. The average daily income from a guest was ten dollars, but if we had to take them all off to Hotel La Fonda, or the Pink Adobe, or to either of our good local night clubs—El Nido or the Pink Garter over in Lamy—or, if the meal I had planned was really cata strophic, off to La Dona Luz in Taos, and buy them a drink for their patience and understanding and then pick up the tab, it never came to less than five dollars a head; usually more. So you can see that many of our business days ended up in the red, even though we hadn't a vacancy in the house.
It was after a week of our first influx of guests that I caught my breath for long enough to sit back and examine our handiwork with a critical eye. And let me say quitefrankly I didn't like what I saw. It seemed to me we were working too hard at things we shouldn't be doing. We weren't taking care of our guests, we weren't entertaining them or being friends with them, we were simply providing for them—and not doing that any too well.
Believe me, I had never been so naive as to expect to be sitting decorously around the lounge in a diaphanous negligee, spouting brittle small-talk, and pouring tea from Bill's family's silver service. But, on the other hand, it had seemed to me that as hostess of the ranch I was expected to be more than a sullen slattern trudging gloomily from bedmaking to dishwashing and snarling at anyone
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