Woman making tortillas by Diego Rivera
Last week I told you the story about how my family opened El Sombrero Mexican Restaurant on the campus of the University of Oregon. This week I continue the growing up in a restaurant stories. This is Mama’s telling of the Fire Chief story.
That Christmas Eve day in Eugene, when my husband Charles and I had been in the restaurant business only three months, we were just beginning to learn what is common knowledge throughout the restaurant industry. Restaurant inspectors, whether they be fire, health, sanitation, maintenance or agriculture, always show up at noon, when your restaurant is full and you are the busiest. Then they expect you to stop operation and give them your full attention.
Another thing we learned that year was that a tortilla machine looked about as familiar to Oregonians as an other-world alien.
A tortilla machine is a big, steel, Rube Goldberg-like monster. It has a roller, dough cutter, three conveyors, three sets of gas burners and an oven. After mixing the dough you push it through the rollers, which works it through the cutters to produce perfect, round tortillas, then sends them onto the first conveyor, which carries the 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 a little more on the first side, and then rolls them onto a receiving table where an attendant spreads them on a metal racks to cool.
One day a lady who had heard about our tortilla machine, called to ask if she could buy five dozen tortillas for her Christmas party. They didn’t sell tortillas in grocery stores in those days. I assured her that she could.
"How much are they?” she asked.
“Twenty-five cents a dozen,” I told her.
She came the next day, walked in and looked around the restaurant for the machine. She brought five quarters with her to insert in the machine. I took her to the tortilla room and introduced her to the monster. Looking at it in disbelief for a few minutes, she asked weakly, “But where do you insert the quarters?”
That Christmas Eve day in Eugene, when my husband Charles and I had been in the restaurant business only three months, we were just beginning to learn what is common knowledge throughout the restaurant industry. Restaurant inspectors, whether they be fire, health, sanitation, maintenance or agriculture, always show up at noon, when your restaurant is full and you are the busiest. Then they expect you to stop operation and give them your full attention.
Another thing we learned that year was that a tortilla machine looked about as familiar to Oregonians as an other-world alien.
A tortilla machine is a big, steel, Rube Goldberg-like monster. It has a roller, dough cutter, three conveyors, three sets of gas burners and an oven. After mixing the dough you push it through the rollers, which works it through the cutters to produce perfect, round tortillas, then sends them onto the first conveyor, which carries the 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 a little more on the first side, and then rolls them onto a receiving table where an attendant spreads them on a metal racks to cool.
One day a lady who had heard about our tortilla machine, called to ask if she could buy five dozen tortillas for her Christmas party. They didn’t sell tortillas in grocery stores in those days. I assured her that she could.
"How much are they?” she asked.
“Twenty-five cents a dozen,” I told her.
She came the next day, walked in and looked around the restaurant for the machine. She brought five quarters with her to insert in the machine. I took her to the tortilla room and introduced her to the monster. Looking at it in disbelief for a few minutes, she asked weakly, “But where do you insert the quarters?”
A modern tortilla machine
The first fire inspector came right in the middle of the noon rush, demanding that we light the tortilla machine so he could do a safety inspection. I was too busy to stop. I told him that I was the only person in the place that could and would light the tortilla machine for him. I suggested that he come back after lunch, when, I would be glad to demonstrate the machine. 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 . . . tor-tila 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, in the middle of the lunch rush, a third inspector walked up to me. “I want to talk to Mrs. Wallace,” he demanded.
“I am Mrs. Wallace, may I help you?”
He looked down at me from his great height, looking astonished that I should be Mrs. Wallace. [Of course, everybody looks down at Mama from their great height. - Penn]
“I have a report here from the Fire Department. You have a tor . . . tor . .. how do you say it? Taco 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 any more. You have been very uncooperative and the machine has not been 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 inspector to come here right I the middle of lunch rush. I won’t take time to light the machine right now. I’ll be happy to show you how it works, right after lunch. If you want to light 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 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 . . . tor-tila 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, in the middle of the lunch rush, a third inspector walked up to me. “I want to talk to Mrs. Wallace,” he demanded.
“I am Mrs. Wallace, may I help you?”
He looked down at me from his great height, looking astonished that I should be Mrs. Wallace. [Of course, everybody looks down at Mama from their great height. - Penn]
“I have a report here from the Fire Department. You have a tor . . . tor . .. how do you say it? Taco 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 any more. You have been very uncooperative and the machine has not been 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 inspector to come here right I the middle of lunch rush. I won’t take time to light the machine right now. I’ll be happy to show you how it works, right after lunch. If you want to light 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.
Tortillas coming off the hopper>
The next day was Christmas Eve. We were planning to close after lunch, so everyone could go home and get ready for our Christmas Party. Everyone had brought 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 each other Merry Christmas. There was joy everywhere. It snowed the night before; Christmas carols were playing on the phonograph. It was the perfect Christmas Eve, with happiness all about.
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 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!”
I knew what had happened, but was afraid to look. I ran to the tortilla room, and there on the floor lay the Fire Chief and his two helpers, 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 window sill, 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 off 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 have 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 normally don’t drink on the job,” he replied, “but this has never happened before. What the Hell, it’s Christmas.” Even as he talked they were reaching for the eggnogs.
That was the beginning of the Christmas party. The firemen stayed until late that night. The last we saw of them, the fire engine was racing down Thirteenth Avenue, with its siren screaming, carrying three bedraggled looking firemen, singing, “Noche de Pas, Noche de Amor.”
Mama, now 92, lives in Portland, Oregon. She was a pioneer woman business owner and a pioneer in the Mexican Food Industry in the Northwest.
Making tortillas the old-fashioned way
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