Author’s Note: The recipe for so-called Earthquake Stew, as was served by the US Army to refugees on the Presidio of San Francisco and in Golden Gate Park, is a basic beef stew, long on vegetables and flour gravy and short on meat. It was thick and filling, but not too tasty (I’ve had it). While I tried in vain to find that recipe, I did manage to find an on-line copy of “The Refugees’ Cookbook” from post-earthquake San Francisco, which shares many of the recipes used in the refugee camps. http://content.cdlib.org/ark:/13030/hb7q2nb55j/
April 1906
Presidio of San Francisco
Claire heard the whispering behind her as she ladled another spoonful of the pale stew onto a plate and handed it to the next person in line.
“She’s French. She may not know any better. We need to tell her.”
Another scoop of stew, another quiet “thank you” from the recipient.
“Mrs. Rochambeau.”
Claire could not remember the name of the society woman who addressed her.
“Yes?”
“Might I have a moment of your time?”
Claire wiped her hands on her apron. “Sergeant Pickett, would you be so kind as to carry on without me for just a moment?”
“Yes’m. I’ll do that.” His dark eyes watched her go, concern written all over his face, even has he spooned more food onto plates.
Claire joined the cluster of stern-faced women.
“Mrs. Rochambeau, you are serving in the wrong line. That’s the line for … “ The pause seemed to go on forever. “Colored people. That’s why Pickett is serving them. It’s not right for us to be serving people like them.”
The women nodded in unison, heads bobbing like so many chickens looking for scratch.
“Oh,” Claire responded drily. “I am so glad you told me. You see, me being French and all, I must be awfully ignorant. Tell me, ladies, who else am I to avoid serving? The Irish, like my friend Maeve Kaye? The African men, like Sergeant Pickett? The Chinese ladies, like my daughter’s friend and amah, Ming? French people like myself? Perhaps the Italians, like Signore Caruso? Please, do enlighten me.”
The first woman (Claire still couldn’t not remember her name and now no longer cared to), spoke again.
“Please, don’t be insolent. We’re trying to help you. Colored people serve us, not the other way around. You’ll give them ideas. The Bible says that the races are not to mix.”
“The only idea I intend to give anyone, Mesdames, is that I can hand food to hungry people; which is something that the Bible commands us to do. I do not recall seeing anything in that book that says we are only to provide food to those who look the same as we do. I volunteered to help Monsieur le Docteur Torney in any way I can, and today he has asked me to serve this stew. What are you ladies, with all of your ‘thou shalt nots,’ doing to help?”
Without waiting for a reply, Claire turned on her heel and walked back to Sergeant Pickett with her nose in the air.
“Miz Rochambeau, you don’t want to make those ladies mad. They’re officers’ wives.”
“I don’t care if they’re the Queens of the May Festival,” Claire replied. She looked Pickett directly in the eye; neither her gaze nor that of the buffalo soldier wavered. “I am here to help all who come, Sergeant Pickett. All. “
“Yes’m. Now, let me get another bucket of this-here stew.”