The Sourdough Wars

for sourdough.
    The story ran the next day, in a wiggly-rule box above the fold on page one. The box also contained a mouthwatering three-column picture of a sourdough loaf broken open so you could see the famous dark crust contrasting with the tempting chewy interior. I bet everyone in the city had sourdough for lunch that day, and those who didn’t had it for dinner. But then, that was about the way San Franciscans ate on an ordinary day. Sourdough with fresh salmon. Sourdough with cracked crab. Sourdough with shrimp Louie, chef’s salad, pasta, petrale sole. Burgers on sourdough rolls. My mind was wandering, and I mentally congratulated Mr. City Editor. This was bigger than sliced muffins. It might be the biggest thing since the earthquake.
    Rob’s story made Peter sound very naive and charming. It outlined the history of the Martinelli Bakery, referred movingly to the tragic death of Mom and Dad Martinelli, and portrayed the youthful Peter as a sensitive child who never had any interest in business, much to the despair of his parents. He had been an artistic child from the first, and his teachers had recognized his talent, but the Martinellis had done their best to squash it and turn him into a baker. Peter had suffered enormous guilt when Mom and Dad died, but, as he put it, “that didn’t make me any smarter in business.” So he had pursued his acting career, and Rob mentioned three or four local triumphs and a couple of movies he’d been in. The story ended like so:
    “I don’t know if anybody’d really be interested in buying a frozen batch of dough,” said Martinelli. “But I thought I’d give it a try. Unless some money comes in from somewhere, the Town Theater’s going to have to fold, and I like to
think
it’s been kind of a cultural enrichment to the city. So I just thought I’d try. If anybody wants to bid, they can contact my lawyer, Chris Nicholson. I don’t guess they will, but just in case.”
    I didn’t really approve. From what I’d seen of Peter Martinelli, he wasn’t really an “aw, shucks” type of guy, and I didn’t like it when actors played roles in real life. But tears came to Chris’s eyes when she read the story. “Rob really got him,” she said. “I can hear him saying that. He’s got so much going for him, and yet he’s so modest and unassuming. He doesn’t seem to believe things could really go right for once.”
    “He could have fooled me.”
    “You saw him after a performance, when he was on a high. He’s really a very sweet, rather insecure person.”
    “That’s what Mickey says about Kruzick.”
    Chris touched her long nose with an equally long finger, a sure sign she was getting upset. “Listen, you don’t have to—”
    “I’m sorry. I liked the guy. Really. I just thought he laid it on a little thick in the interview.”
    “You don’t know him.” She went into her own office. I didn’t know if he was Mr. Right, but I could see she was in deep.
    * * *
    Rob did a few more stories about the auction over the next few days, and we got four bidders. We set “The Great Sourdough Starter Auction,” as
Chronicle
readers had come to know it, for noon the following Tuesday, at the modest offices of Nicholson and Schwartz. Monday night Peter had Chris and Rob and me over for dinner.
    He had a two-room apartment in one of those shabby buildings that San Francisco is full of, the kind you hate going to because the hallway carpet stinks and no one ever seems to vacuum the stairs. Peter’s had high ceilings and a fresh coat of high-gloss avocado-colored paint. His furniture was Cost Plus wicker, but he’d painted it aubergine and had had paisley cushions made for it. He’d ripped up the smelly carpet that probably came with the apartment, buffed the floor, and scattered tan and white cotton throw rugs about. A few nicely framed charcoal drawings hung on the walls.
    It was a very eccentric, very elegant place, and it had obviously cost hardly anything. If I were starting to see Peter as a very resourceful young man, dinner persuaded me further. He served us homemade fettuccine with homemade pesto, a salad of Belgian endive and watercress, and pineapple sorbet he’d made himself.
    I thought maybe Chris was on to a good thing. The two of them had been together every spare minute since they’d met, so I guess she thought so, too.
    The bidders had agreed to Rob’s presence at the auction, and he was hoping to interview them afterward, but he wanted