by David Hoffman
Ever since I had gotten the notion of restaurant cooking firmly planted in my naive mind, I had fantasized about working in the finest restaurants. Masa's, Ernie's, Fleur De Lys, - San Francisco was full of them. Four star examples of European cooking at it's finest.
I had read in my book "Great Chefs of San Francisco," about the culinary geniuses who had studied under and worked alongside great masters of Europe. Men who had begun cooking when they were but boys, learning treasured secrets and going on to become great masters themselves. And I would work beside them. Why not? Didn't I trim the stems off my spinach crepes? I was destined for greatness!
With my confidence backed by a solid two weeks of culinary training, I headed towards Union Square, down the yellow brick road to four star heaven. I would eventually visit about twenty restaurants, yet it would all prove to be unnecessary, for it would be the first restaurant that would offer me a job. Masa's is a four star establishment, founded by the late Masataka Kobyashi, a Japanese master chef. Masa worked at a succession of Parisian restaurants training under a watchful cadre of masters, including his long term mentor at the Palace Hotel in Tokyo, who trained under Escoffier.
I read about Masa's in "Great Chefs." Somehow, Masa's stood out in my mind. Perhaps it was the unconventionality of a French restaurant run by a Japanese chef. Perhaps it was the photo of Masa himself, a fortyish man with a boyish exuberance. My guide book read as follows: "Masa's **** $$$$. World renowned as San Francisco's finest French restaurant. Chef Julian Serrano follows in the footsteps of founder Masa Kobayashi presenting innovative gourmet fare with organically grown vegetables, all exquisitely arranged. The desserts are as delicious as they are beautiful. Reservations required twenty one days in advance."
I showed up at Masa's without a reservation, casually attired in blue jeans and black leather jacket, and was summarily introduced to Steve, the sous chef, a tall young man with a distracted manner and a harried expression. Steve offered me a seat, speaking with quick phrases and furtive glances towards the kitchen as though at any moment several gallons of stock were about to boil over.
After scanning my one paragraph resume, Steve tossed it back at me and told me the restaurant might be willing to try me gratuitement, which meant I wouldn't be paid. This seemed a little corny, but then I was in an old fashioned, traditional establishment. The fact was, I was lucky even to be considered, and under different circumstances, would have gladly paid them. Steve asked me to call him in three days, then with one last furtive glance, got up and ran towards the kitchen.
Three days later I called Steve and was asked to come in on a Saturday. My date with destiny was set. I showed up at Masa's around 3:30 in full white dress, with my collection of "Never Sharpen" knives and my ever enthusiastic spirit. Several minutes later Steve appeared wearing his usual harried expression and led me promptly to the lobby. I had come prepared to work. Now I was being asked to wait outside. The chef was in the middle of a champagne tasting - he would be with me shortly.
"Steve, I thought you wanted me to work."
"Oh no! First we have to set up a meeting with the chef. He wants to meet you, find out what your aspirations are. Then he'll set up a time for you to come in."
"Oh." I sat in the lobby of the Vintage Court Hotel in my Hare Krishna outfit listening to Tchaikovsky, sipping Earl Grey tea, waiting to discuss my life's aspirations with a chef who was busy imbibing himself with champagne. Apparently I had stumbled onto a system that was not designed to simply sweep me into its bosom at first sight. I had entered the vestiges of an old fashioned, traditional hierarchy and was expected to play the part - the part of the humble apprentice waiting earnestly to prostrate himself before the great master.
At least I had one advantage - the great master would be speaking to me after his champagne tasting. I waited. A half hour passed. The Tchaikovsky changed to Mozart then back to Tchaikovsky again. I began to sense that champagne was not the only thing that was being tested. Then, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a stocky, white clad figure moving towards me. Before I could arise, the great master greeted me by name, shook my hand, and led me into the dining room, where he held open the door for me as if to say "Welcome to my restaurant."
I sat facing this solid, bristle haired man with square face and soft, unlined features surrounding small, intense blue eyes. He sat gazing back at me intently for a few moments, then spoke.
"So, why are you here?"
A tangle of possible responses fluttered through my mind.
"I want to commit my time and energy working for a fine establishment."
"And what is your experience?"
"I'm working at L'Entrecôte De Paris right now, as a line cook."
"And how long have you been there?"
"About two months."
"Mmmm Hmmm ... I see." Monsieur Julian pursed his lip and nodded his head thoughtfully, probably wondering what the hell he was doing talking to me.
"Tell me, have you worked in San Francisco before?"
"No, I moved here one year ago, from New York."
"Ah! Then you have worked in New York!"
"No, I worked in Baltimore."
"Mmmm Hmmm, Mmmm Hmmm." Poor chef Julian wasn't getting very far.
"Tell me, do you want to make a career of cooking?"
Here came the aspirations part, I stumbled.
"Right now ... I'm not sure."
Monsieur Julian's intent gaze was suddenly interrupted by a look of disconcertion. He turned away for a moment, as if studying the air, then turned back to me...
"Dis job requires a tremendous amount of energy and dedication." It doesn't do me any good if you just need a job. If I hire you it must be good for me - it must do something for me. Good for me - good for you - dat's the way it works. People work here four years, then go on to become great chefs!"
This sounded faintly reminiscent of Madame Martazami's line, except that this time I actually believed it.
Monsieur Julian continued, "I guarantee you, you will learn a lot here. It will be good for you."
Chef Julian's light blue eyes twinkled with excitement. I imagined us laying side by side on a bed passing a carrot ... "was it good for you?"
Monsieur Julian explained his hierarchy. "When somebody leaves, everybody moves up, dat's how it works."
He became very animated, tapping little lines on the table as he spoke. "One person leaves ... another person moves up. He moves out ... she moves in. In ... out ...up! up! up!
Chef Julian reiterated his points through a thick Basque accent as though making sure he himself understood what he was saying. I listened intently, trying my best to maintain a serious expression. He sat there, holding that intense gaze, studying me.
Now it was my turn to be animated. "I can tell you three things," I said, as I brought the edge of my hand down hard on the table ... (whack!) ... "I care about what I do" (whack!) ... "I'm detail-oriented" (whack!) ... I'm dedicated."
My histrionics seemed to impress chef Julian. He sat back in his chair, lifted his chin and stared down at me with piercing blue eyes. "You will start out at the lowest position in the restaurant."
I immediately imagined myself scrubbing toilets.
"But it is by no means the smallest job - it is very hard. The people here are very dedicated. They work maybe ten, twelve hours a day." If you work fast ... (Julian made rapid chopping motions with his hand) ... maybe you only work eight. If you work slow ... (he now made almost comical peeling motions as though he were cautiously paring a turnip) ... you work twelve.
"Everyone here has their own station, everyone knows exactly what their task is. Everything is done perfectly, with perfect timing. You will be in charge of the vegetables."
Hmmm, I thought, perfect for a vegetarian.
"But first I will have you come in and observe. Maybe you no like it.
No point in my hiring you if you no like it. Of course, I cannot pay you and you will have no insurance, but you will get a free plate of food."
Chef Julian smiled impishly. I would probably get a free plate of sauteed calves brains.
I was told to be at Masa's in ten days. I was to bring my knives. I was not to ask any questions. I was to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.
"You have eyes, yes? Good, keep them always open."
I had complained that L'Entrecote was an unorganized mass of inefficiency. Now, like it or not, I was going to have efficiency rammed down my throat. I would be going from "One Star Line Cook" to "Four Star Potato Peeler." I thought about what I was committing myself to. Chef Julian had fifteen people working under him, each one had to give him at least one year's commitment. Since chef Julian's policy was to move people up one at a time, I calculated that it would take me fifteen years to reach the position of sous chef.
I had ten days to prepare. The following day, I went to the book store and purchased my new training manual - "The Art of Vegetable Carving and Garnishing." Then I ran to the grocery store and bought five pounds of potatoes, two pounds of carrots, and a foot long zucchini.
My strategy was simple. I didn't want to be looked upon simply as the "potato peeler." If I was to have any chance of impressing the chef and of attaining the position of anything higher than prep boy, I was going to have to demonstrate extraordinary abilities. Short of levitating the cutting table, this meant attaining above average knife skills. I flashed back to my interview at L'Entrecôte ...
"Zee chef vill be able to tell instantly how much zhoo know by how zhoo hold zee knife."
Actually, my knife holding abilities had increased markedly since I had roughened the handles of my knives with 50-grit sandpaper. I was now down to only one minor laceration a week. I had also re-customized my chef's coat, sewn loops on my aprons to hold a knife sheath and picked up a small French-made food processor, which I figured would be perfect for working in a French restaurant. I was set.
The following week I showed up at Masa's looking like Robo Cook. I slipped in through the employee's entrance, walked past the wine cellar, and headed for the tiny office, where I crammed my gear in amongst jars of white truffle oil and imported capers. Before I had tied the strings around my apron Steve whisked me out of the little office and into the fray. It was the culinary equivalent of Grand Central Station at rush hour. A whirling mass of white cloaked figures all carrying trays, stirring pots and wielding knives. A four-star model of efficiency evidenced by concentrating faces and punctuated by laughing, joking voices.
Steve immediately took me around and introduced me to everyone. There was Mateo, a young Latin fellow with a grim, determined look. Mateo was the vegetable prep man, and he would be my immediate supervisor for the evening. Mateo was busy carving potatoes into little round baskets. Following up in the Latin quarter was Antonio, the dishwasher, a slightly built fellow with a happy countenance and a ready smile.
Rounding the corner I met Masa, a shy young Japanese fellow who was introduced to me as the "owner," producing immediate laughter from everyone. Apparently Masa was a close relative of the late founder, Masataka Kobayashi. Masa was in charge of cooking the vegetables. Next in the Japanese section was Yoshi, a funny, twinkle-eyed character who resembled a loony renegade Samurai with his humorous grin and scraggly goatee. Yoshi was in charge of ... well, I'm not sure of exactly what Yoshi was in charge of, except to keep the place in a constant state of delirium simply by his mere presence. Inching my way on down the line I bumped into Chad, the grill man. A tall, good looking fellow who would roast you with his clever barbs as though he were roasting you over his grill. In charge of the line was Kell, a tall young man with a friendly, inquisitive manner. An unpretentious fellow with years of restaurant experience, Kell had been at Masa's only four months, previously working at Splendido's and The Blue Fox. Kell maintained his position over the kitchen's eight stoves.
Taking up the end position was Taka, a short, solidly built fellow of Oriental origins with bristly hair and a warm, friendly smile. Finally I was introduced to José, a stocky Latin fellow with wire rim glasses and a gentle manner. José was busy stuffing sausages. Then there were the service managers, Susan, and Danielle. There were so many people it was like trying to remember all the characters in a Broadway musical. Finally, chef Julian made his grand entrance amidst lots of greetings, hand shaking and back slapping. He walked around the kitchen greeting each person in turn.
"Hello Taka. How are you Yoshi? Good to see you Mateo. How was your weekend?" On and on, like a director warming up his cast.
After the formal introductions I was led to my station - a two by four foot cutting table with a plastic cutting board. I was handed a box of string beans and told to cut them into perfect two and a half inch pieces. I couldn't simply cut them. I was instructed to stack them root to root, tip to tip, tie them with a rubber band, and align them on specially designated marks on the board. Then I could cut them. I could barely keep the amused grin off my face. There I was, slicing string beans with the precision of a brain surgeon, while next to me, grim faced Mateo was busily reducing baby carrots to the size of thumb tacks.
Everyone was executing their respective tasks with exquisite precision. I felt as if I were in a jewelry shop instead of a mere kitchen. At L'Entrecôte I scoffed at Raoul, whacking away at the garlic with a pair of fourteen inch cook's knives. Now I was the equivalent of a Raoul. I tensed. What if I accidently mis-cut a bean? No doubt the shocked customer would return the plate to the kitchen, and I would be quickly shown the door. I compensated for my anxiety by carefully centering my eye along the knife blade. But I couldn't keep my attention there for long. All around me was a whirlwind of activity.
Elizabeth and Oakley were running about with trays of pastries. Chad was searing medallions of beef in a pan. Kell was flambeing the alcohol off the sauces. Juan was scaling and filleting large Red Snappers. There were about a dozen crabs trying to escape from a big steaming pot.
I stood there as if in the eye of a tornado, as the concentration grew more intense. New sensations began to capture my attention. Smells. Heavenly smells. Smells that were so good they practically overloaded my senses. It was the first time I had smelled black truffles.
It was now five o'clock, time for the unsung heros of the kitchen to have their well-deserved repast. Everyone gathered around to read a letter that Chef Julian had tacked up on the plate warmer. It was from the Greatful Dead. It seemed that a few members of the "Dead" had changed from tye dye into black tie, and slipped away for some four star entertainment of the culinary sort. Apparently the experience had raised the group's culinary consciousness and had changed them into instant gastronomical groupies. The letter described Masa's cooking as "food fit for the Gods." It had the Greatful Dead's trademark imprinted on it - a skull and a rose. Apparently, compliments from legendary rock stars were a routine aspect of life at Masa's. The crew read the letter matter-of-factly, then casually walked away.
After a modest provencal dinner of roast chicken and risotto I followed the crew into the kitchen and resumed my position. I now had twelve baskets of pearl onions sitting in front of me. My task was to peel them, layer by layer, until they were the size of large peas. It was me and my four dollar paring knife, against twelve baskets of the little darlings. Shred by shred, layer by layer, I whittled away at them. They did not give up without a fight either. They went straight for the eyes. By the end of the first hour and a half of onion peeling I was so tired I had to lean over, resting my elbows on the table. No sooner had I done this when Taka came by... "Hey, pssst! Don't lean over. Stand up straight when you work."
"Ohöoh right man, thanks." Yeah thanks. Marine sentries stand up straight when they work. I was about to abandon my post in favor of a horizontal position on the floor. Good thing Taka stepped in to save me.
Two hours later I finished my pea pearl peeling and had the container nearly full when Kell came by...
"Hmmm, that's all you've got? You'd better do four more baskets." Arrggghh! I tried to hide my look of pain under a grimace. Four more baskets for a grand total of sixteen! I was becoming a pea pearl peeling slave. Certainly this was a test to determine how much punishment I could take. Was this what I had to look forward to were I to join these swashbuckling daredevils of gastronomic heights?
Young Hans, his impressive arsenal of cutlery spread out before him, went undauntingly about his tasks, striding gallantly through this dark labyrinth of swinging metal and searing heat. I tottered trepidasously at the edge of the moat, clutching my little paring knife like a cowering serf.
"Here," spoke the young, noble, redheaded Anglo, "use this," as Hans handed me his specially shaped, stainless steel tempered blade. "It'll be much easier."
I sheepishly relinquished control of my cheap plastic knife and bowed gracefully to my young friend's benevolence. Hans was there to help me and I, a good thirteen years his senior, was his apprentice for the day. Hans exalted in his position as my mentor. A student at the California Culinary Academy, Hans had been apprenticing at Masa's for six months without pay. In addition to a demanding, full-time schedule at the academy, this was a heavy load. Yet he displayed no indication of displeasure. In fact he seemed enthralled at the idea of working at Masa's. Here he could fulfill his dream as an integral, valuable part of a grand culinary ensemble. It was preemptive graduation Magna Cum Laude.
After recovering from my bout with the onions, I had to fold napkins. These were for enveloping the poached oysters. Hans patiently and repeatedly showed me the fifteen different folds, which left me wishing I had become a computer programmer like my Mother had wanted. I wondered how many levels below potato peeling napkin folding was as I frustratingly attempted to perform magic tricks with these unevenly sewn pieces of linen.
All around me the action was growing hot and heavy. Chad had turned on the grill. Yoshi had wrapped a rag around his head like a Samurai getting ready for a battle, and several of the others followed suit. There were handkerchiefs, bandannas, even napkins being tied around now sweating foreheads. It was as though a renegade band of Samurai Apache warriors had taken over the kitchen.
Suddenly Kell cried out "Gentleman, we have an order!" And six warrior chefs went into action with a resounding "Whup! Whup! Whup! Whup! Ho!" Everyone was yelling like wild cow hands on a cattle drive. Every time Kell would call out an order, each individual poke would return his command with a loud "Hup! Whup! Ho!" It was like watching a re-run of Wagon Train with a couple of Samurais thrown in.
I contributed my part by standing at my station acting as a back stop for the dishwasher, who was contributing his part to this cacophonous ensemble by banging the pots as loudly as he could. It was a continual whirlwind of noise, motion and heat. Unlike L'Entrecote, Masa's small enclosed kitchen had the effect of trapping the heat. I suddenly understood why everyone was just a bit crazy. It was a heat that would wither the average person, and I was below average. But if the tiny kitchen had the effect of trapping the heat, it also had the effect of trapping the smells. And oh what smells they were! My olfactory apparatus was used to common smells. Now they were being assaulted with Fois Gras and Black Truffles. This was made slightly more amusing by the fact that I didn't even know what a truffle was.
Soon the dishes began coming together under the watchful eye of chef Julian. To José went the task of assembling the appetizers, in this case, a warm Lobster vinegarette on a bed of crispy fried leeks. Thin slivers of leek were deep fried until curled up into unruly bunches, rendering a golden brown bed on which the warm Lobster sat. This was under sauced with a creamy vinegarette and artistically dabbled with multi-colored peppercorns, then drizzled with a little olive oil and more vinegar.
Of course, this was what I could decipher from eight feet away, peering through a whirling throng of people, trying to watch hands that worked as fast as a magician's. In fact, all around me were magicians, and I was as a child agape at a magic show. With the flick of a wrist, ordinary pasta was twirled into a miniature mountain, topped by a red aspic peak, and graced with a tiny sapling of dill. Multi-colored rivers of sauces flowed together under perfectly browned pieces of meat, while graceful stalks of asparagus fanned out in pretty symmetrical patterns.
While one person ladled the sauce onto the plate, another would render it in polka-dots by dripping cream down a skewer, and a third would painstakingly mold little crescents of vegetable pureé onto the sides, garnishing them with miniature pieces of dill. It was an assembly line of exquisite precision, orchestrated by a mad Spaniard who dashed from station to station yelling imperatives at a crazed crew. It was nothing less than carefully controlled sheer madness.
When the challenge from the dining room became too great, chef Julian got into the game, calling out orders like an auctioneer.
"Two Lobster salads one Fois Gras three Saddle of Lamb Four Snappers!!!" Followed by "Fire table one! Fire table two! Fire! Fire!! Fire!!!"
Then six or seven men would yell "Whup! Whup! Whup! Whup! Ho!"
The yelling, the heat, the stress - it was like being transplanted into a war zone. If L'Entrecôte was an approximation of "Das Boot," Masa's was it's living incarnation. Around nine o'clock the madness reached a frenzy, with the orders pouring in, and chef Julian banging his hand on the metal table yelling "Pick up! Pick up!! Pick up!!!"
Danielle, the service manager, scurried back and forth, muttering orders to himself, trying to keep them all straight. Occasionally Julian would yell at him, anxiously concerned that his exquisite creations graced the customer's palette before turning aux froid.
By ten o'clock on a Tuesday night the orders were still pouring in.
Apparently, Masa's had an interminably insatiable clientele. The tough, battle hardened crew rallied to the call. I held my post, gripping my ten pound bag of shallots like a shell-shocked Marine. After nine and a half hours slicing, dicing and chopping in the verticle on-guard position, I felt as if I were about to collapse. My shoulders and neck muscles were approaching rigamortis. I was receiving independent pain signals from each one of my spinal vertebrae. My legs had long ago turned to jelly. I wanted to cry, I wanted to leave, I wanted to check into the field infirmary for gastronomic battle cases. I imagined chef Julian walking up to my bed side like Patton and slapping me across the face. "Nerves, huh? Why I ought to shoot you myself!"
For the final order, Chef Julian prepared a special plate for a special customer, and everybody gathered around to watch the great master. The plate went out, and a roar of applause erupted from the kitchen, then suddenly, it was all over. The great master walked up and down the line, congratulating his troops with handshakes and pats on the back, and slipped by me without so much as a nod. Then somebody asked me if I wanted a Sapporo, and the beer started flowing. What I really needed was a double shot of Vodka.
If I thought myself overworked at L'Entrecôte, it couldn't compare with even one day of slavery at Masa's. At L'Entrecote everything was understated with a grim non-chalance. At Masa's it was an extravagant performance, complete with melodrama, pretense and histrionics, played out by a cast of characters that resembled the Pirates of Penzantz.
I stood there sipping my beer, watching the cooks lifting the sauces out of the warming bin. There were ten in all. A red beet sauce, which dutifully sat under a pan fried Snapper, a Beurre Blanc, nouvelle's answer to Hollandaise, and a venison sauce.
"I want you to taste all these sauces so you'll remember them," Hans said. "Get your spoon. What? You didn't bring your tasting spoon?" Young Hans had his very own special sauce tasting spoon which he carried with him at all times. Hans and I stood there, eating baby potatoes marinated in truffle oil with our special spoons and drinking imported beer. Hans began discussing the origins of the truffle. I had to confess I didn't even know what a truffle was.
"Is it something that's grown?" I asked.
"Oh no, truffles aren't grown, they're hunted. In the old days men used pigs to hunt them. They were a favorite food of pigs."
Hmmm, they still are, I thought.
"They're a form of mushroom that grows wild. They're quite expensive."
Hans seemed rather delighted at the task of dazzling me with fancy sauces and inundating me with the history of the truffle. As we talked, Kell engaged us in conversation.
"So what did you think about working at Masa's?"
My thoughts immediately flashed to my aching back and my pinched nerves. Then all the incredible dishes that I had witnessed flashed across my mind. The exquisite precision with which they had been prepared, contrasting with the sheer lunacy of the kitchen staff, made me start to laugh. "Oh man, its a pretty wild place!"
"Yup," echoed Kell, "this place is one of a kind! You won't find another place quite like this!"
Kell was obviously proud of working at Masa's, and I could understand why. Here was a young man, no older than twenty nine or thirty, who had achieved the coveted position of sous chef at one of the top restaurants in the country. Somehow he had instantly circumvented chef Julian's hierarchal promotion system, and was now more or less in charge of the line. Moreover, he was a thoroughly unpretentious individual.
I considered myself a friendly, unpretentious individual too. But it was clear that there was no way I was going to circumvent having to peel those sixteen baskets of pearl onions, or wrestle with that ten pound bag of shallots. If I was going to work at Masa's, I was going to have to be prepared to give up any semblance of a life outside the kitchen, and surrender myself to culinary boot camp. I felt like a teenager standing in the doorway of the Marine recruiting office. In the front of my mind was the heady, tantalizing possibility of being One of The Few, The Proud, The ... In the back of my mind, and not too far back either, lurked the inescapable feeling that what I was considering might just as easily turn me into a corpse.
The tough, bristle haired recruiting officer was just stepping out of his office. We made eye contact and he approached.
"So, what did you think?"
"Well, those guys crawling under the barbed wire while the machine guns were firing looked a little scary sarge, but I think I can do it."
To have actually told Monsieur Julian what I was thinking would have ended my chances right then and there. I pursed my lips, raised my eyebrows and tried to look thoughtfully enthusiastic as I searched through my mental thesaurus for the right words.
"It was very... "intriguing," which was a fancy way of saying it was "very interesting," which was a pretense for saying "you gotta be crazy!"
Apparently, this filtered through Monsieur Julian's ego as a compliment.
"Ah! Then you think you would like to work here!"
Julian popped the thousand dollar question. It was either do or die.
"Yes!"
"Good! Well, keep in touch."
Keep in touch??? What did he mean, keep in touch?
"Monsieur Julian, I thought you were offering me a job!"
Julian drew back, mimicking a shocked expression, staring at me as though trying to grasp the enormity of what I had just said.
"Oh no! I don't even have an opening. I just wanted you to see what it was like. Maybe soon somebody leaves and I can try you out."
I felt like a minor fool. Here this man had spent nearly an hour scrutinizing my life's aspirations, then had exhorted me into slaving for him, for free, and now was telling me he didn't even have an opening. Maybe he was simply trying to hide the fact that he didn't like me. It must have been the time I leaned my elbows on the counter.
"Perhaps can you use me one or two days a week, for free?"
"No no, I don't have any room. I already have Hans."
This was unbelievable. I felt like roasting him over the hot coals while he yelled "Fire! Fire!! fire!!!"
Perhaps it was just as well. If my day at Masa's was a preview of life in culinary heaven, it was a frightening one. If I was going to enter the bastions of the culinary elite they were going to have to carry me through on a stretcher! However much of a farce it seemed, I now had worked at two French restaurants, including one that some critics considered to be the finest French restaurant in the country. It was time to re-do my resumé. Yet I pondered whether to include Masa's. How would I explain it? Well, I worked there from one o'clock on January 26th to eleven o'clock on January 26th. But hey, I learned a lot. I now knew how to say "Haute Cuisine", and toss axioms around like "Pick Up!" and "fire!" I was a veteran - a battle scared L'Entrecôte De Paris refugee who had fought, and survived, the battle of Masa's.