GOLD FEVER Part Three. Ken Salter

the side-wheel steamer “Bolinas” headed for Sacramento. Manon packed a gourmet lunch and I ordered the best champagne from the river boat’s menu. It was the first time Manon and I were alone together without our twins. Manon didn’t have to worry about any hanky-panky on my part. We spent the greater part of the journey enjoying the big double bed in our stateroom despite the challenges of our ship’s rocking and rolling as it bucked the whitecaps in San Pablo bay.

      Sacramento was a beehive of activity as it was still recovering from a disastrous fire and major flooding from the winter before. Despite the muddy streets and frenzied rebuilding going on, the gambling palaces were packed and several luxury hotels offered fancy dining and well-appointed rooms for the well-heeled. As it would probably be the last time we stayed in such comfort, we ordered an American meal from room service, uncorked wine we brought, and got our money’s worth out of the large four poster bed.

      The next stage of our journey to Marysville was by Wells Fargo stage. On my previous trip, I’d gone by river schooner. This time I wanted to gauge my competition and we paid the price by bumping and bouncing in the deep ruts in the muddy track the stage had to negotiate. The three other passengers, a husband and wife in their forties and her younger brother spoke English with heavy Swedish accents. They were dressed in heavy woolens as if they expected snow at any moment.

      “So, what brings you to Marysville?” Manon asked politely.

      “Vee vant ta see vut be the possibilities for business. Zee wife can cook an’ zee bruder can help. So, maybe we make vat is called boarding house, yes?” Manon rolled her eyes at me to signal it would be a long trip with these three for company. We decided to let the Swede chatter in Swedish with his portly wife and tall, skinny brother-in-law who ogled Manon’s full figure on the sly rather than try to communicate in pidgin English. We arrived in Marysville in late afternoon and headed directly to L’Hotel de France.

      “Welcome, welcome! I was so glad to get your letter and the chance to see you again,” M. Ricard, the owner, greeted us with open arms. “And this must be your lovely wife,” he said amiably gazing at Manon who held out her hand which Ricard took, bowed slightly, and bussed warmly.

      Ricard was a portly, affable man in his mid-fifties with receding pepper-brown hair and inquisitive eyes. He’d been invited by a fellow Frenchman, Charles Covillaud, from the Department of Charente, France, to come to Marysville and build a hotel. Covillaud had been in the area in 1848 when gold was discovered by Marshall on the American River and he’d quickly made his pile mining the tributaries of the Yuba River and bought all the land on which the town was situated.

      He’d helped to finance the hotel’s construction in order to get his old friend to join in the building of the town. It was a smart move as the town bordered on the Sacramento River flowing to Sacramento and into the bay and the south fork of the Yuba River which joined the Sacramento River at Marysville.

      When Gino and I visited Marysville in 1851, it was a tent city apart from the hotel, a few wood-framed residences, some saloons, boarding houses and mostly empty lots. After the cramped, jolting carriage ride, Manon proposed we walk the town before the sun set. The former tent city was now a bustling commercial center with many two-storey buildings housing banks, bodegas, mining supply emporiums, saloons, bakeries and food stores all on the ground floor with apartments above. There were wharves and warehouses on both sides by the rivers with small river boats and lighters tied to the docks.

      Sharp-eyed Manon spotted a pretty young woman in fancy dress as she entered an ornate two-storey dwelling. “Ooh la la! How did Belle Cora miss that one? Did you have a good time visiting the house with Gino?” Manon said baiting me.

      “Hardly, since the house wasn’t there during our trip. The only females available in this part of town were some broken-down Chilean whores operating out of tents and waiting for sex-starved miners to come on the weekend to resupply or lose their hard-earned gold.” I replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

      “Hmmm. I wonder,” Manon riposted.

      On the next block we encountered two restaurants — one Chinese and the other American featuring meat stews, roasted venison, bear and wild pig all garnished with boiled potatoes and gravy for $2.50 a serving. Manon gave me a funny look and said, “Is this the best they can do with fresh meat?”

      I laughed. “It’s probably better fare than we’ll get at the hotel. It’s the best meal most miners will get for a long time. We didn’t have a decent meal until we got to the French mining camps. Welcome to how the Americans live. You can see why we were anxious to visit the mining camps and get home to your cooking,” I said rubbing my belly. Manon did look a bit worried as she is used to cooking and eating gourmet food accompanied by the best French wines.

      We stepped into a liquor store. It was stocked primarily with black glass bottles of whisky and rum as well as Scotch beers in pottery bottles. There were no labeled wines; the few corked wine bottles had been filled from barrels and probably contained what we French call la piquette — a thin, watery wine with an acidic aftertaste. When we returned from our stroll, Manon checked the menu posted for the hotel restaurant which featured mostly fried meats and potatoes and I chuckled as she turned up her nose.

      “So, Big Boy, you were honest about one thing; American food outside big cities is very uninteresting. Tonight we eat Chinese. Even if it’s not up to the standards of Chinese cooking in San Francisco, it couldn’t be worse than what the Americans are eating.”

      We had a drink with Henri Ricard and I made an appointment to discuss my new express company business with him in the morning. We’d spend the afternoon visiting mining emporiums to solicit orders for denim work pants and aprons.

      The Chinese restaurant turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall operation. The cook operated his “kitchen” behind a floral screen depicting trees with cherry blossoms and well dressed Chinese strolling among the alleys of trees and admiring the white blooms. There were six small tables, each with 3 or 4 rickety bamboo chairs. The menu in Chinese characters was posted on a large slate at the entrance. Two tables were occupied by Chinese men in silk pants and embroidered tunics; they were drinking what looked to be alcohol from large pottery bottles with blue Chinese characters in the white glaze.

      A portly Chinese man with a greasy apron tied loosely around his huge belly and a long queue down his back greeted us with a toothy smile that showcased his two gold teeth. He seemed mesmerized by Manon’s beauty. “You likee eatee or drinkee?” He said timidly in heavily accented English.

      Manon replied sweetly, “We’d like to do both. Do you have a menu in English?”

      Our host looked confused. It was apparent he didn’t understand Manon’s request. He bowed and said, “Solly.”

      I was prepared to leave, but Manon said in French, “Hold your horses, Big Boy.” To our host she said, “We likee eatee and drinkee.” This brought a radiant gold-toothed smile and the rapt attention of all the male Chinese patrons. “We likee drinkee that,” she said pointing to the large, white glazed bottle on the nearest occupied table. Manon got out of her chair, went to the slate menu board and pointed to four sets of Chinese characters and said, “We likee eatee.” Her performance brought amused smiles to the faces of everyone present and vigorous nods of appreciation from our host who bowed deeply to his important guest. It was apparent that only Chinese ate here and Manon’s presence would be something of a landmark event giving our host, the probable owner, increased status and importance in the eyes of his customers. Word would spread the moment we left the eatery.

      “So, Big Boy, our dinner tonight is going to be a culinary adventure. Whatever they serve us has to be more interesting than overcooked deer or pig smothered in brown gravy,” Manon said with a mischievous smile.

      Our host trotted out of the kitchen with one of the large pottery bottles and two Chinese porcelain drinking cups on a tin tray. He poured us each a half a cup’s worth of a strong-smelling, white liquid. We each took a tiny sip and nodded our appreciation to our beaming host. The drink was tangy and alcoholic, but I couldn’t place it. It was different from any bitters or aperitif drink I knew. The males