Read Online Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: George Orwell
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with oaths and the clanging
of pots and pans. It was so hot that all the metal-work ex-
cept the stoves had to be covered with cloth. In the middle
were furnaces, where twelve cooks skipped to and fro, their
faces dripping sweat in spite of their white caps. Round that
were counters where a mob of waiters and PLONGEURS
clamoured with trays. Scullions, naked to the waist, were
stoking the fires and scouring huge copper saucepans with
sand. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry and a rage. The head
cook, a fine, scarlet man with big moustachios, stood in
the middle booming continuously, ‘CA MARCHE DEUX
AUFS BROUILLES! CA MARCHE UN CHATEAUBRI-
AND AUX POMMES SAUTEES!’ except when he broke off
to curse at a PLONGEUR. There were three counters, and
the first time I went to the kitchen I took my tray unknow-
ingly to the wrong one. The head cook walked up to me,
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twisted his moustaches, and looked me up and down. Then
he beckoned to the breakfast cook and pointed at me.
‘Do you see THAT? That is the type of PLONGEUR they
send us nowadays. Where do you come from, idiot? From
Charenton, I suppose?’ (There is a large lunatic asylum at
Charenton.)
‘From England,’ I said.
‘I might have known it. Well, MAN CHER MONSIEUR
L’ANGLAIS, may I inform you that you are the son of a
whore? And now—the camp to the other counter, where
you belong.’
I got this kind of reception every time I went to the kitch-
en, for I always made some mistake; I was expected to know
the work, and was cursed accordingly. From curiosity I
counted the number of times I was called MAQUEREAU
during the day, and it was thirty-nine.
At half past four the Italian told me that I could stop
working, but that it was not worth going out, as we began at
five. I went to the lavatory for a smoke; smoking was strictly
forbidden, and Boris had warned me that the lavatory was
the only safe place. After that I worked again till a quarter
past nine, when the waiter put his head into the doorway
and told me to leave the rest of the crockery. To my aston-
ishment, after calling me pig, mackerel, etc., all day, he had
suddenly grown quite friendly. I realized that the curses I
had met with were only a kind of probation.
‘That’ll do, MAN P’TIT,’ said the waiter. ‘TU N’ES PAS
DEBROUILLARD, but you work all right. Come up and
have your dinner. The hotel allows us two litres of wine each,
Down and Out in Paris and London
and I’ve stolen another bottle. We’ll have a fine booze.’
We had an excellent dinner from the leavings of the
higher employees. The waiter, grown mellow, told me sto-
ries about his love-affairs, and about two men whom he had
stabbed in Italy, and about how he had dodged Us military
service. He was a good fellow when one got to know him;
he reminded me of Benvenuto Cellini, somehow. I was tired
and drenched with sweat, but I felt a new man after a day’s
solid food. The work did not seem difficult, and I felt that
this job would suit me. It was not certain, however, that it
would continue, for I had been engaged as an ‘extra’ for the
day only, at twenty-five francs. The sour-faced doorkeeper
counted out the money, less fifty centimes which he said
was for insurance (a lie, I discovered afterwards). Then he
stepped out into the passage, made me take off my coat, and
carefully prodded me all over, searching for stolen food. Af-
ter this the CHEF DU PERSONNEL appeared and spoke
to me. Like the waiter, he had grown more genial on seeing
that I was willing to work.
‘We will give you a permanent job if you like,’ he said.
‘The head waiter says he would enjoy calling an Englishman
names. Will you sign on for a month?’
Here was a job at last, and I was ready to jump at it. Then
I remembered the Russian restaurant, due to open in a fort-
night. It seemed hardly fair to promise working a month,
and then leave in the middle. I said that I
of pots and pans. It was so hot that all the metal-work ex-
cept the stoves had to be covered with cloth. In the middle
were furnaces, where twelve cooks skipped to and fro, their
faces dripping sweat in spite of their white caps. Round that
were counters where a mob of waiters and PLONGEURS
clamoured with trays. Scullions, naked to the waist, were
stoking the fires and scouring huge copper saucepans with
sand. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry and a rage. The head
cook, a fine, scarlet man with big moustachios, stood in
the middle booming continuously, ‘CA MARCHE DEUX
AUFS BROUILLES! CA MARCHE UN CHATEAUBRI-
AND AUX POMMES SAUTEES!’ except when he broke off
to curse at a PLONGEUR. There were three counters, and
the first time I went to the kitchen I took my tray unknow-
ingly to the wrong one. The head cook walked up to me,
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twisted his moustaches, and looked me up and down. Then
he beckoned to the breakfast cook and pointed at me.
‘Do you see THAT? That is the type of PLONGEUR they
send us nowadays. Where do you come from, idiot? From
Charenton, I suppose?’ (There is a large lunatic asylum at
Charenton.)
‘From England,’ I said.
‘I might have known it. Well, MAN CHER MONSIEUR
L’ANGLAIS, may I inform you that you are the son of a
whore? And now—the camp to the other counter, where
you belong.’
I got this kind of reception every time I went to the kitch-
en, for I always made some mistake; I was expected to know
the work, and was cursed accordingly. From curiosity I
counted the number of times I was called MAQUEREAU
during the day, and it was thirty-nine.
At half past four the Italian told me that I could stop
working, but that it was not worth going out, as we began at
five. I went to the lavatory for a smoke; smoking was strictly
forbidden, and Boris had warned me that the lavatory was
the only safe place. After that I worked again till a quarter
past nine, when the waiter put his head into the doorway
and told me to leave the rest of the crockery. To my aston-
ishment, after calling me pig, mackerel, etc., all day, he had
suddenly grown quite friendly. I realized that the curses I
had met with were only a kind of probation.
‘That’ll do, MAN P’TIT,’ said the waiter. ‘TU N’ES PAS
DEBROUILLARD, but you work all right. Come up and
have your dinner. The hotel allows us two litres of wine each,
Down and Out in Paris and London
and I’ve stolen another bottle. We’ll have a fine booze.’
We had an excellent dinner from the leavings of the
higher employees. The waiter, grown mellow, told me sto-
ries about his love-affairs, and about two men whom he had
stabbed in Italy, and about how he had dodged Us military
service. He was a good fellow when one got to know him;
he reminded me of Benvenuto Cellini, somehow. I was tired
and drenched with sweat, but I felt a new man after a day’s
solid food. The work did not seem difficult, and I felt that
this job would suit me. It was not certain, however, that it
would continue, for I had been engaged as an ‘extra’ for the
day only, at twenty-five francs. The sour-faced doorkeeper
counted out the money, less fifty centimes which he said
was for insurance (a lie, I discovered afterwards). Then he
stepped out into the passage, made me take off my coat, and
carefully prodded me all over, searching for stolen food. Af-
ter this the CHEF DU PERSONNEL appeared and spoke
to me. Like the waiter, he had grown more genial on seeing
that I was willing to work.
‘We will give you a permanent job if you like,’ he said.
‘The head waiter says he would enjoy calling an Englishman
names. Will you sign on for a month?’
Here was a job at last, and I was ready to jump at it. Then
I remembered the Russian restaurant, due to open in a fort-
night. It seemed hardly fair to promise working a month,
and then leave in the middle. I said that I
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