This is Mama's story. I lived it, but she wrote this up. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did reliving it.
Merry Christmas, Chief
By
Victoria Ayala Pantoja
That Christmas season in Eugene, Oregon, when my husband Charles and I had been in the restaurant business only three months, we had just begun to learn what must be common knowledge throughout the restaurant industry: restaurant inspectors – whether they be fire, health, sanitation, maintenance or agriculture – always show up at noon, when your place is full and you are the busiest.
Ours was a Mexican restaurant, and another thing we learned that year was that a tortilla machine looked about as familiar to Oregonians as an otherworld alien.
A tortilla machine is a big, steel, Rube Goldberg-like monster. It has a dough cutter, three roller conveyors, three sets of gas burners and an oven. After mixing the dough you push it through the rollers, which work it through the cutters, and onto the first conveyor, which carries the cut tortillas over the first set of burners and cooks them on one side. When the tortillas reach the end of the first conveyor, they drop onto the second conveyor, where they are cooked on the other side. Then to a third conveyor, which cooks them more on the first side, and then rolls them onto a receiving table. Where an attendant spreads them on metal racks to cool.
The first fire inspector came right in the middle of the noon rush, demanding that I light the machine. Being too busy to stop, I told him that I was the only person in the place that could – and would – light it for him. I suggested that he come back after lunch, when, I told him, I would be glad to light it for him. He shot me a dirty look, then proceeded to inspect the machine. It was obvious that he had no understanding of what he saw, and he finally left without saying a word.
The following day, a different inspector from the Fire Department came – again, right in the middle of the lunch rush. Looking the machine over, he asked me how it worked. “If you’ll come back after lunch,” I told him, “I’ll show you. Right now, I’m busy and can’t take the time.” I rushed off with a pile of hot plates in my hand.
He followed me down the aisle, right to the table where I delivered the food. “Mrs. Wallace!” he said in his most authoritative voice, “I’ve come here to inspect your tor . . . tortila machine. You can’t operate one in Eugene unless it is inspected. It’s the Fire Department’s responsibility to see that every machine in the city is safe.”
“If you’ll come back after lunch, I’ll show you. I’m just too busy right now,” I replied, as I hurried off to collect more plates that were piling up at the pickup counter. Several hours later I realized that he was gone.
The next day, right in the middle of the lunch rush, a third inspector walked up to me. “I want to talk to Mrs. Wallace,” he demanded.
“I’m Mrs. Wallace – may I help you?” He looked down at me from his great height, looking astonished that I should be Mrs. Wallace. “I have a report here from the Fire Department. You have a tor . . . tor . .. taco – how do you say it – machine, in this restaurant? I am the third inspector to come out here to inspect it. All our reports must be in tonight, and if we don’t check your machine, you can’t operate it anymore. You have been very uncooperative, and the machine is not inspected yet.” He sounded disturbed.
“Oh!” I protested, “I have been very cooperative! I’ve offered to demonstrate how the machine works, if you’ll just come in after the lunch hour.” I was swamped at the moment, running all over the place, trying to do the work of three people. “Look, Mr. Inspector, you’re the third one that comes here, right in the middle of lunch rush. I will not take time to light the machine right now! If you want to do it yourself, go ahead, but do it at your own risk!” I walked off.
Inspector number three walked into the tortilla room, stared at the machine for a few minutes, scratched his head and left.
The next day was Christmas Eve. We planned to close right after lunch, so everyone could go home and get ready for our Christmas Party, which we would hold in the restaurant. We had all brought our pretty, wrapped gifts that morning, and being short of space, we had stacked them on top of the tortilla machine. Packages covered the machine; there was a piñata filled with candy; and surplus Christmas decorations were strewn all over the tortilla room. The ‘monster’ was invisible, completely covered with gifts and goodies of all kinds.
As usual we had a big lunch. The employees and customers were wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. There was joy everywhere. It snowed the night before, and right now the phonograph played Christmas carols. It was the perfect Christmas Eve, with happiness all about. And wouldn’t you know it? -- right in the middle of the busiest part of the lunch hour, a big red fire engine stopped in front of the restaurant, and His Highness the Fire Chief Himself, followed by two courtiers, strode into the dining room. He was tall, dark and handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was dressed to the hilt (for the party to come, no doubt) with gold braid on his cap, gold buttons on his coat, and heavily decorated with medals. He marched straight towards me.
“Mrs. Wallace, I am Fire Chief Blah Blah, and I am going to inspect your tor . . . tor . . . tamale – or whatever you call it – machine.”
“Mr. Fire Chief, these are hot plates I’m holding. If you can’t wait until after lunch, go ahead and light the machine yourself. You’re the Chief.” I walked off with my load of hot plates, and in a moment forgot about him.
I stood by a table taking an order when the blast came. The entire building shook. Black smoke and the smell of gas poured out of the tortilla room. Someone shouted, “The Russians are coming!” – but I knew what had happened and was afraid to look. I ran to the tortilla room, and there on the floor lay the Fire Chief and his two helpers, half covered with Christmas wrappings and ribbons. The Chief’s hat had disappeared, the buttons on his coat had blown off, and his hairy chest was exposed. His beard was singed, as were his hair and eyebrows. He looked like a minstrel. Everything in the room was torn to pieces. There was a shoe on the windowsill, and another shoe in the sink with the dirty dishes. The piñata was nowhere to be found, but there was candy everywhere. Quickly I reached over the prone bodies and turned off the gas. Then I was seized with laughter, and I ran to the restroom where I became hysterical. By the time I had control of myself, Charles, who is much braver than I, had revived and dusted of the Fire Chief and his assistants.
With all the nonchalance I could muster, I said, “And now, Mr. Fire Chief, this is how you light it.” I lit a match and held it to the pilot lights. When they were lit, I pushed a button, and the conveyors started moving in their rhythmic pattern. Then I pushed another button and all the burners lit at one time. “There,” I said, “that’s how you do it.”
Someone found the Chief’s clipboard under a pile of torn packages and handed it to him, then gave him a pencil. He stared at the machine, then at me, and then he signed the paper.
We offered the Chief and his entourage some Christmas cheer. “We don’t drink on the job,” he replied, “but this has never happened before.” Even as he talked, they were reaching for the eggnogs.
That was the beginning of the Christmas party that year. The firemen stayed until late that night. The last we heard and saw, a fire engine with its siren screaming blasting down Thirteenth Avenue, carrying three bedraggled looking firemen, singing in Spanish, “Noche de Pas, Noche de Amor.’
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Merry Christmas, Chief
By
Victoria Ayala Pantoja
That Christmas season in Eugene, Oregon, when my husband Charles and I had been in the restaurant business only three months, we had just begun to learn what must be common knowledge throughout the restaurant industry: restaurant inspectors – whether they be fire, health, sanitation, maintenance or agriculture – always show up at noon, when your place is full and you are the busiest.
Ours was a Mexican restaurant, and another thing we learned that year was that a tortilla machine looked about as familiar to Oregonians as an otherworld alien.
A tortilla machine is a big, steel, Rube Goldberg-like monster. It has a dough cutter, three roller conveyors, three sets of gas burners and an oven. After mixing the dough you push it through the rollers, which work it through the cutters, and onto the first conveyor, which carries the cut tortillas over the first set of burners and cooks them on one side. When the tortillas reach the end of the first conveyor, they drop onto the second conveyor, where they are cooked on the other side. Then to a third conveyor, which cooks them more on the first side, and then rolls them onto a receiving table. Where an attendant spreads them on metal racks to cool.
The first fire inspector came right in the middle of the noon rush, demanding that I light the machine. Being too busy to stop, I told him that I was the only person in the place that could – and would – light it for him. I suggested that he come back after lunch, when, I told him, I would be glad to light it for him. He shot me a dirty look, then proceeded to inspect the machine. It was obvious that he had no understanding of what he saw, and he finally left without saying a word.
The following day, a different inspector from the Fire Department came – again, right in the middle of the lunch rush. Looking the machine over, he asked me how it worked. “If you’ll come back after lunch,” I told him, “I’ll show you. Right now, I’m busy and can’t take the time.” I rushed off with a pile of hot plates in my hand.
He followed me down the aisle, right to the table where I delivered the food. “Mrs. Wallace!” he said in his most authoritative voice, “I’ve come here to inspect your tor . . . tortila machine. You can’t operate one in Eugene unless it is inspected. It’s the Fire Department’s responsibility to see that every machine in the city is safe.”
“If you’ll come back after lunch, I’ll show you. I’m just too busy right now,” I replied, as I hurried off to collect more plates that were piling up at the pickup counter. Several hours later I realized that he was gone.
The next day, right in the middle of the lunch rush, a third inspector walked up to me. “I want to talk to Mrs. Wallace,” he demanded.
“I’m Mrs. Wallace – may I help you?” He looked down at me from his great height, looking astonished that I should be Mrs. Wallace. “I have a report here from the Fire Department. You have a tor . . . tor . .. taco – how do you say it – machine, in this restaurant? I am the third inspector to come out here to inspect it. All our reports must be in tonight, and if we don’t check your machine, you can’t operate it anymore. You have been very uncooperative, and the machine is not inspected yet.” He sounded disturbed.
“Oh!” I protested, “I have been very cooperative! I’ve offered to demonstrate how the machine works, if you’ll just come in after the lunch hour.” I was swamped at the moment, running all over the place, trying to do the work of three people. “Look, Mr. Inspector, you’re the third one that comes here, right in the middle of lunch rush. I will not take time to light the machine right now! If you want to do it yourself, go ahead, but do it at your own risk!” I walked off.
Inspector number three walked into the tortilla room, stared at the machine for a few minutes, scratched his head and left.
The next day was Christmas Eve. We planned to close right after lunch, so everyone could go home and get ready for our Christmas Party, which we would hold in the restaurant. We had all brought our pretty, wrapped gifts that morning, and being short of space, we had stacked them on top of the tortilla machine. Packages covered the machine; there was a piñata filled with candy; and surplus Christmas decorations were strewn all over the tortilla room. The ‘monster’ was invisible, completely covered with gifts and goodies of all kinds.
As usual we had a big lunch. The employees and customers were wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. There was joy everywhere. It snowed the night before, and right now the phonograph played Christmas carols. It was the perfect Christmas Eve, with happiness all about. And wouldn’t you know it? -- right in the middle of the busiest part of the lunch hour, a big red fire engine stopped in front of the restaurant, and His Highness the Fire Chief Himself, followed by two courtiers, strode into the dining room. He was tall, dark and handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was dressed to the hilt (for the party to come, no doubt) with gold braid on his cap, gold buttons on his coat, and heavily decorated with medals. He marched straight towards me.
“Mrs. Wallace, I am Fire Chief Blah Blah, and I am going to inspect your tor . . . tor . . . tamale – or whatever you call it – machine.”
“Mr. Fire Chief, these are hot plates I’m holding. If you can’t wait until after lunch, go ahead and light the machine yourself. You’re the Chief.” I walked off with my load of hot plates, and in a moment forgot about him.
I stood by a table taking an order when the blast came. The entire building shook. Black smoke and the smell of gas poured out of the tortilla room. Someone shouted, “The Russians are coming!” – but I knew what had happened and was afraid to look. I ran to the tortilla room, and there on the floor lay the Fire Chief and his two helpers, half covered with Christmas wrappings and ribbons. The Chief’s hat had disappeared, the buttons on his coat had blown off, and his hairy chest was exposed. His beard was singed, as were his hair and eyebrows. He looked like a minstrel. Everything in the room was torn to pieces. There was a shoe on the windowsill, and another shoe in the sink with the dirty dishes. The piñata was nowhere to be found, but there was candy everywhere. Quickly I reached over the prone bodies and turned off the gas. Then I was seized with laughter, and I ran to the restroom where I became hysterical. By the time I had control of myself, Charles, who is much braver than I, had revived and dusted of the Fire Chief and his assistants.
With all the nonchalance I could muster, I said, “And now, Mr. Fire Chief, this is how you light it.” I lit a match and held it to the pilot lights. When they were lit, I pushed a button, and the conveyors started moving in their rhythmic pattern. Then I pushed another button and all the burners lit at one time. “There,” I said, “that’s how you do it.”
Someone found the Chief’s clipboard under a pile of torn packages and handed it to him, then gave him a pencil. He stared at the machine, then at me, and then he signed the paper.
We offered the Chief and his entourage some Christmas cheer. “We don’t drink on the job,” he replied, “but this has never happened before.” Even as he talked, they were reaching for the eggnogs.
That was the beginning of the Christmas party that year. The firemen stayed until late that night. The last we heard and saw, a fire engine with its siren screaming blasting down Thirteenth Avenue, carrying three bedraggled looking firemen, singing in Spanish, “Noche de Pas, Noche de Amor.’
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
RSS Feed