THE MOSCOW SUMMIT : Burger Baron Beats Bureaucrats’ Bun Ban

One day, perhaps, historians studying the fourth Reagan-Gorbachev summit will weigh the significance of the Great Burger War.

They may see it as a textbook case of the underlying Soviet mistrust of Americans, or of the Kremlin’s insatiable hunger for hard currency, or of a Dixie capitalist defending himself against Communist aggression.

For now, this small saga of the American chef who threatened to barbecue in Red Square if he couldn’t give away U.S. hamburgers, and of the Soviet bureaucrat who blockaded the buns to stop him, is just a funny footnote to history.

The two principal combatants couldn’t have less in common. There was John Folse, a flamboyant New Orleans restaurateur and chef whose diamond-encrusted gold Rolex watch and French-designed chef’s jacket and toque clearly identified him as the archetypical capitalist.

And there was Pavel Tchaika, the sour-faced, crew-cut director of services at the SovinCentr hotel and office complex who is the quintessential Communist nyet man.

The American had an agreement with SovinCentr to open a Cajun catfish restaurant next door to the summit press room and briefing center and to bring in all the food that was needed and cook it. Then the Soviets would set the prices in U.S. dollars and keep all the proceeds.

There was, however, one unusual provision. “It said that, if I want any of the food or products for my personal use, to do as I pleased with, all I needed was to remove it from the inventory,” Folse recalled.

The chef told Tchaika that he was bringing in 10,000 U.S. hamburgers and hamburger buns--some to serve in the restaurant but most to give away free to the thousands of U.S. journalists and technicians converging on Moscow for the summit.

“I got a verbal OK from the Soviets on this,” Folse said, “because it didn’t violate the written agreement.”

The restaurant opened for business last Thursday in the SovinCentr. By Friday, word spread among the Americans--who turned up their noses at the unappetizing salami sandwiches available in the press center--that they could come by the Cajun cafe anytime for genuine U.S. fast food.

“I wanted the press to stand in my kitchen, eat a burger and some fries and get a beer from my cooler. I wanted them to feel at home,” said Folse, who also recognized the publicity value.

Soon Folse was fixing burgers for up to 200 news people at a time who lined the hallways outside his kitchen. He made deliveries to hundreds more at the giant Rossiya Hotel across Red Square, where the American TV networks were located. By Monday, he was giving away 1,000 burgers a day.

“And that’s when the Soviets had a meeting and figured, ‘Something’s gotta be wrong with this deal,’ ” the chef said. “ ‘If he’s giving away 1,000 hamburgers a day, there has to be some money we’re losing somewhere.’ ”

And there was, since the Soviets were charging $5 for a burger and fries in the restaurant, plus a $16 cover charge at dinner.

“In just three days,” Folse noted with grudging admiration, “the Soviets had learned a lot about capitalism.”

And that’s when the Great Burger War officially started.

Tchaika, in an interview Thursday, would not directly answer questions about the incident except to acknowledge that there had been “some problems.” When asked why the Soviets had objected to the burger giveaway, he said only that the SovinCentr agreement said Folse was to be the “only party to use these foodstuffs, in my opinion.”

So the account of what happened next comes from Folse, who was called into a meeting with the Soviets on Tuesday morning. “They said, ‘We have to stop this giveaway on the burgers immediately. We just can’t have it anymore,’ ” he said.

Folse asked why not.

The Soviet officials paused. Then Tchaika maintained that the kitchen area was “restricted” and that only restaurant personnel were allowed there.

“Fine. No problem. We’ll give the burgers away in the restaurant section,” Folse said.

The Soviets took 20 minutes to confer. “No, we can’t do that either,” Tchaika told the American. “We don’t have any room or provisions for to-go orders.”

Folse explained that he’d brought along paper bags and foil wrappings. “We’ll solve the space problem by taking the to-go orders outside the restaurant in the hallway and having them delivered,” he said.

The Soviets, Folse said, grew noticeably nervous.

“So then they said, ‘OK. Fine. If you want to continue to give away the burgers, you are welcome to do it. They’re your burgers. Only you cannot use our stoves to cook them.’ ”

“All right,” he said, “but is there any such thing as a barbecue grill pit that I can borrow? Because I want to barbecue the burgers in Red Square.”

According to Folse, the Soviets blinked. Or at least he thought they did. “No. We’ll have to work this out,” he quoted them as saying. But when Folse returned to the restaurant, Steve Faulkner, who was in charge of burgers, told him that the daily delivery of buns from a storage area supervised by SovinCentr was late. The Americans had ordered 600 buns; the Soviet handymen who usually brought the boxes up on rolling carts were nowhere to be seen.

“By 3 p.m., lunch was over, and we were dead in our tracks because we had run out of buns,” Folse said, like a general recounting a battle. “And I said, ‘Oh, I see: No buns, no burgers.’

“In other words, we’d have to have a bun summit.”

The American called a meeting with Tchaika and the other Soviets. They reached a negotiated settlement: Folse could sell burgers to go for $2--less than the restaurant price--from a table set up outside the restaurant.

At the end of the meeting, Folse asked for his buns. “And they said, ‘Oh, no problem. We’ll just go get them right now. Wait a minute.’ ”

Within half an hour, there they were. The Great Burger War was over.