Page 75 - down-and-out-in-paris-and-london

another period of turmoil like the breakfast hour. Most of
our work was fetching meals from the kitchen, which meant
constant ENGUEULADES from the cooks. By this time the
cooks had sweated in front of their furnaces for four or five
hours, and their tempers were all warmed up.
At two we were suddenly free men. We threw off our
aprons and put on our coats, hurried out of doors, and,
when we had money, dived into the nearest BISTRO. It was
strange, coming up into the street from those firelit cellars.
The air seemed blindingly clear and cold, like arctic sum-
mer; and how sweet the petrol did smell, after the stenches
of sweat and food! Sometimes we met some of our cooks
and waiters in the BISTROS, and they were friendly and
stood us drinks. Indoors we were their slaves, but it is an
etiquette in hotel life that between hours everyone is equal,
and the ENGUEULADES do not count.
At a quarter to five we went back to the hotel. Till half-
past six there were no orders, and we used this time to
polish silver, clean out the coffee-urns, and do other odd
jobs. Then the grand turmoil of the day started—the din-
ner hour. I wish I could be Zola for a little while, just to
describe that dinner hour. The essence of the situation was
that a hundred or two hundred people were demanding in-
dividually different meals of five or six courses, and that
fifty or sixty people had to cook and serve them and clean
up the mess afterwards; anyone with experience of catering
will know what that means. And at this time when the work
was doubled, the whole staff was tired out, and a number
of them were drunk. I could write pages about the scene

Down and Out in Paris and London