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You want to watch out who you run with, fellows, or you're liable to turn out 'Ichneumon men' instead of gentlemen." He laughed as he returned the glass to the shelf and closed his sketch book. "What in the world!" "Pots and kettles, frying pans, French toast, hot cakes, Chef's the man; We'll wash our hair and comb our face, Camp Tech ump sa, that's the place."
She made this discovery just back of the press, and glancing up, she noted a hook that had formerly been hidden from her view, on which were impaled a number of papers the chef's "copy" from which various bills had been printed. Running through these papers she suddenly paused, pulled one away from the hook and tucked it into her bag.
He muttered something about all the decent men who'd met their death because he wouldn't listen to Paulette when she tried to tell him the truth about Macartney, damned him up and down, and turned to Paulette with a sweet sort of roughness: "You look done up, my girl! Here, get down by the fire and eat what our chef's got ready!"
I've got this revolver pointed at you." He and Roger were both startled by the chef's face. Above the unkempt beard his eyes shone with a half-crazed lustre, and his hands shook. "Very well," he said. "Show me where it goes." "I'll show you," said Titania. Aubrey put out his arm in front of the girl. "Stay where you are," he said angrily. "Down in the History alcove," said Roger.
"What'll you take for him?" "Why, hello!" said the shoeman, with an eye that dwelt upon the chef's official white cap and apron, "You talk English, don't you? Fust off, I didn't know but it was one of them foreign dukes come ova he'a to marry some oua poor millionai'es daughtas."
"Plover it is," he said to the waiter, and added, "tell Pierre it's for me and he'd better not burn it again." The waiter was crushed by Pierre's lapse, especially as the chef's name was Achille. Ferriday went on: "With the plover we might have some champignons frais sous cloche and a salade de laitue avec French dressing, yes?
A roomful of guests and no music!" "Relax, pardners!" Chow broke in cheerfully. "Just keep things goin' for a spell, an' I'll fix things up pronto!" Doffing his chef's cap, Chow hustled out to his parked jeep and took off with a roar. Mystified but hopeful, Tom, Bud, and Phyl did their best to entertain the guests. Sandy had rushed to the telephone. In twenty minutes Chow came rushing back. "Hey!
Aubrey threaded his way through the news with the practiced eye of one who knows what interests him. Then, by force of habit, he carefully scanned the advertising pages. A notice in the HELP WANTED columns leaped out at him. WANTED For temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 5 experienced cooks, 20 waiters. Apply chef's office, 11 P.M. Tuesday. "Hum," he thought.
As you may have noticed, most of the miserable creatures on the wrong side of a bar adopt one of two reprehensible courses: either they treat drinking as though the aim of blending liquids were to imitate some French chef's fiddlefaddle a dash of bitters, a squirt of orange, an olive, cherry, or onion wrenched from its proper place in the saladbowl, a twist of lemonpeel, sprig of mint or lump of sugar and an eyedropperful of whisky; or else they embrace the opposite extreme of vulgarity and gulp whatever rotgut is thrust at them to addle their undiscerning brains and atrophy their undiscriminating palates.
After lunch this full Thursday I rushed to assist Mary. I loved going down the stairs into our hot scurry of excitement. Indeed, it was seeing behind the scenes. And always the friendly nods from everyone, even though the waiters especially looked ready to expire in pools of perspiration. At Monsieur Le Bon Chef's counter some sticky waiter had ordered a roast-beef sandwich. The heat had made him skeptical. “Call that beef?” The waiter next him glared at him with a chuckle. “An' must we then always lead in the cow for you to see?” A large Irishman breezed up to my Bon Chef. “Two beef
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