Page 60 - down-and-out-in-paris-and-london

with wavy grey hair, dressed in a smart, double-breasted
flannel suit and smelling of scent. Boris told me that he too
was an ex-colonel of the Russian Army. His wife was there
too, a horrid, fat Frenchwoman with a dead-white face and
scarlet lips, reminding me of cold veal and tomatoes. The
PATRON greeted Boris genially, and they talked together
in Russian for a few minutes. I stood in the background,
preparing to tell some big lies about my experience as a
dish-washer.
Then the PATRON came over towards me. I shuffled un-
easily, trying to look servile. Boris had rubbed it into me
that a PLONGEUR is a slave’s slave, and I expected the PA-
TRON. to treat me like dirt. To my astonishment, he seized
me warmly by the hand.
‘So you are an Englishman!’ he exclaimed. ‘But how
charming! I need not ask, then, whether you are a golfer?’
‘MAIS CERTAINEMENT,’ I said, seeing that this was
expected of me.
‘All my life I have wanted to play golf. Will you, my dear
MONSIEUR, be so kind as to show me a few of the princi-
pal strokes?’
Apparently this was the Russian way of doing busi-
ness. The PATRON listened attentively while I explained
the difference between a driver and an iron, and then sud-
denly informed me that it was all ENTENDU; Boris was to
be MAITRE D’HOTEL when the restaurant opened, and
I PLONGEUR, with a chance of rising to lavatory atten-
dant if trade was good. When would the restaurant open?
I asked. ‘Exactly a fortnight from today,’ the PATRON an-