After my chef dad died of a sudden heart attack, the University Club brought the family my father’s possessions from his small “office.” Included were his chef’s hat, shaped a little like a miniature atomic-mushroom cloud, and his work clothes: checkered pants and starched white jackets, plus an extra pair of shoes a size larger than his usual ones (probably necessitated by eight or more hours of standing on a cement floor in front of a very hot stove).
There were also institutional cookbooks spanning his almost 40-year culinary career. A few of the older, thicker ones were written in German; the newer ones, in English. Recipes were supersized: “2 gallons of whipping cream,” “5 dozen eggs,” “10 pounds of calves’ liver” and served 40 or more. Next to some of the recipes, Dad had noted modifications because of Colorado’s elevation; a few he had evaluated as “good” or “excellent”; the ones he disliked, he had crossed out.
In a metal box were several of his special menus, prepared for celebrations like Twelfth Night or New Year’s Day, and also some of his original recipes for eggnog, sauerbraten and Southern cured ham. There were also pictures and clippings about Bruno C. Bohmer and honors he had won or offices he had held in the Colorado Chefs and Stewards Organization and the Denver Turnverein.
Near the bottom of the box was a letter that he had obviously read over and over until the edges were curled and the creases deep. It was from a UC member, praising Dad’s competence, his creativity and his wonderfully prepared food. Beneath that note was a searingly critical one from another member. I wondered why Dad had kept both. The complimentary one I understood. Everybody needs a little sugar, a pat on the back, an acknowledgment of achievement, especially on dreary days. But why had he kept the nasty message? Maybe it was to keep him from repeating earlier errors.
Perhaps he kept the note as a reminder of how devastating injurious words can be, a reminder I doubted Dad ever needed. I couldn’t remember his ever being unkind. During the Depression, when one out of four American workers was unemployed, Dad was always an easy touch for a loan and never seemed to worry about being repaid.
Although Dad’s employers forbade giving leftovers to beggars, he risked his own job by disobeying. He could not abide throwing good food in the garbage when so many were starving. When too much had been cooked and could not be served the next day, he would wrap it carefully and put it into a bag, adding untouched food from diners’ plates. He placed the sack behind a pole across the alley from his workplace, where down-and-outers would find it. Dad was good to everyone, patient with small children’s mischief and old people’s peccadillos.
When we were making Dad’s final arrangements, the funeral director recommended using Olinger’s smallest chapel despite my saying that Dad had many friends. Even I had not guessed how many: co-workers, UC members, Shriners, neighbors, lawyers, meat and produce vendors, choristers, politicians, fellow immigrants, beer-making/beer-drinking buddies, his three doctors, the barber, the mailman, people he had lent money to, and so on. As the chapel overflowed, first one anteroom and then a second and then a third were opened to accommodate the crowd. Many had to stand during the ceremony. It seemed like everybody who had ever known Bruno was there to honor him.
Like Will Rogers, Dad had never met a man (or woman or child or animal) he didn’t like – and all of them seemed to return his affection. They admired his diligence, his expertise, his kindness, and his never-ending thirst for knowledge.
When he was very young, he had been conscripted into the German navy as a cook. While traveling all over the world, Bruno fell in love twice – not with fair young maidens, but with Australia and America. Subsequent voyages let him compare both places, trying to choose his new homeland. He decided on America. He was an omniverous reader, becoming an expert on every phase of U.S. history. He studied all of my high school textbooks harder than I did and was sad when I missed test questions. Dad also loved music – everything from German lieder to the big bands to opera. He even named my sister Brunnhilde after Richard Wagner’s heroine.
Dad could not have been a better parent, always supportive of small endeavors, always proud of even tiny achievements. When I deserved punishment, he was always fair and gentle. Never did he favor my sister over me, although a lesser man might have. No one ever guessed (nor did he tell them) that Brunnhilde was his biological child and I was his stepdaughter.
At his funeral, many told my family that Bruno had been their best friend. I realized that he had always been mine, too. More than 60 years later, I wish I had told him so. Because he was very wise, perhaps he knew.
Louise Turnbull is a Denver native and retired teacher who has written commercial film scripts and an animated television special.
