As he read on, his admiration for the young sous-chef grew. The presentation appeared masterly, revealing a broad grasp both of the hotel’s problems and the potentialities of its restaurant business. It angered Peter that the chef de cuisine, M. Hebrand, had—according to Lemieux—dismissed the proposals entirely.
True, some conclusions were arguable, and Peter disagreed himself with a few of Lemieux’s ideas. At first glance, too, a number of estimated costs seemed optimistic. But these were minor. The important thing was that a fresh and clearly competent brain had brooded over present deficiencies in food management and come up with suggested remedies. Equally obvious was that unless the St. Gregory made better use of Andre Lemieux’s considerable talents, he would soon take them elsewhere.
Peter returned the plan and charts to their folder with a sense of pleasure that someone in the hotel should possess the kind of enthusiasm for his work which Lemieux had shown. He decided that he would like to tell Andre Lemieux his impressions even though—with the hotel in its present uncertain state—there seemed nothing more that Peter could do.
A telephone call elicited the information that, this evening, the chef de cuisine was absent through continued sickness, and that the sous-chef, M. Lemieux, was in charge. Preserving protocol, Peter left a message that he was coming down to the kitchen now.
André Lemieux was waiting at the doorway from the main dining room.
“Come in, monsieur! You are welcome.” Leading the way into the noisy, steaming kitchen, the young sous-chef shouted close to Peter’s ear, “You find us, as the musicians say, near the crescendo.”
In contrast to the comparative quietness of yesterday afternoon, the atmosphere now, in early evening, was pandemonic. With a full shift on duty, chefs in starched whites, their assistant cooks, and juniors, seemed to have sprouted like daisies in a field. Around them, through gusts of steam and waves of heat, sweating kitchen helpers noisily hefted trays, pans, and cauldrons, while others thrust trolleys recklessly, all dodging each other as well as hurrying waiters and waitresses, the latter’s serving trays held high. On steam tables the day’s dinner menu dishes were being portioned and served for delivery to dining rooms. Special orders—from a la carte menus and for room service—were being prepared by fast-moving cooks whose arms and hands seemed everywhere at once. Waiters hovered, questioning progress of their orders as cooks barked back. Other waiters, with loaded trays, moved quickly past the two austere women checkers at elevated billing registers. From the soup section, vapor rose swirling as giant cauldrons bubbled. Not far away two specialist cooks arranged, with dextrous fingers, canapes and hot hors-d’oeuvres. Beyond them, an anxious pastry chef supervised desserts. Occasionally, as oven doors clanged open, a reflection of flames flashed over concentrating faces, with the ovens’ interiors like a glimpse of hell. Over all, assailing ears and nostrils, was the clatter of plates, the inviting odor of food and the sweet, fresh fragrance of brewing coffee.
“When we are busiest, monsieur, we are the proudest. Or should be, if one did not look beneath the cabbage leaf.”
“I’ve read your report.” Peter returned the folder to the sous-chef, then followed him into the glass-paneled office where the noise was muted. “I like your ideas. I’d argue a few points, but not many.”
“It would be good to argue if, at the end, the action was to follow.”
“It won’t yet. At least, not the kind you have in mind.” Ahead of any reorganization, Peter pointed out, the larger issue of the hotel’s ownership would have to be settled.
“Per’aps my plan and I must go elsewhere. No matter.” André Lemieux gave a Gallic shrug, then added, “Monsieur, I am about to visit the convention floor. Would you care to accompany me?”
Peter had intended to include the convention dinners, scheduled for tonight, in his evening rounds of the hotel. It would be just as effective to begin his inspection from the convention floor kitchen. “Thank you. I’ll come.”
They rode a service elevator two floors up, stepping out into what, in most respects, was a duplicate of the main kitchen below. From here some two thousand meals could be served at a single sitting to the St. Gregory’s three convention halls and dozen private dining rooms. The tempo at the moment seemed as frenetic as downstairs.
“As you know, monsieur, it is two big banquets we ’ave tonight. In the Grand Ballroom and the Bienville ’all.”
Peter nodded. “Yes, the Dentists’ Congress and Gold Crown Cola.” From the flow of meals toward opposite ends of the long kitchen, he observed that the dentists’ main course was roast turkey, the cola salesmen’s, flounder saute. Teams of cooks and helpers were serving both, apportioning vegetables with machine-like rhythm, then, in a single motion, slapping metal covers on the filled plates and loading the whole onto waiters’ trays.
Nine plates to a tray—the number of conventioneers at a single table. Two tables per waiter. Four courses to the meal, plus extra rolls, butter, coffee, and petits fours. Peter calculated: there would be twelve heavily loaded trips, at least, for every waiter; most likely more if diners were demanding or, as sometimes happened under pressure, extra tables were assigned. No wonder some waiters looked weary at an evening’s end.
Less weary, perhaps, would be the maître d’hôtel, poised and immaculate in white tie and tails. At the moment, like a police chief on point duty, he was stationed centrally in the kitchen directing the flow of waiters in both directions. Seeing André Lemieux and Peter, he moved toward them.
“Good evening, Chef; Mr. McDermott.” Though in hotel precedence Peter outranked the other two, in the kitchen the maître d’hôtel deferred, correctly, to the senior chef on duty.
André Lemieux asked, “What are our numbers for dinner, Mr. Dominic?”
The maître d’ consulted a slip of paper. “The Gold Crown people estimated two hundred and forty and we’ve seated that many. It looks as if they’re mostly in.”
“They’re salesmen on salary,” Peter said. “They have to be there. The dentists please themselves. They’ll probably straggle and a lot won’t show.”
The maître d’ nodded agreement. “I heard there was a good deal of drinking in rooms. Ice consumption is heavy, and room service had a run on mixes. We thought it might cut the meal figure down.”
The conundrum was how many convention meals to prepare at any time. It represented a familiar headache to all three men. Convention organizers gave the hotel a minimum guarantee, but in practice the figure was liable to vary a hundred or two either way. A reason was uncertainty about how many delegates would break up into smaller parties and pass up official banquets or, alternatively, might arrive en masse in a last-minute surge.
The final minutes before a big convention banquet were inevitably tense in any hotel kitchen. It was a moment of truth, since all involved were aware that reaction to a crisis would show just how good or bad their organization was.
Peter asked the maître d’hôtel, “What was the original estimate?”
“For the dentists, five hundred. We’re close to that and we’ve begun serving. But they still seem to be coming in.”
“Are we getting a fast count of new arrivals?”
“I’ve a man out now. Here he is.” Dodging fellow waiters, a red-coated captain was hastening through the service doors from the Grand Ballroom.
Peter asked André Lemieux, “If we have to, can we produce extra food?”
“When I have the word of requirements, monsieur, then we will do our best.”
The maître d’ conferred with the captain, then returned to the other two. “It looks like an additional hundred and seventy people. They’re flooding in! We’re already setting up more tables.”
As always, when crisis struck, it was with little warning. In this case it had arrived with major impact. One hundred and seventy extra meals, required at once, would tax the resources of any kitchen. Peter turned to André Lemieux, only to discover that the young Frenchman was no longer there.
/> The sous-chef had sprung to action as if catapulted. He was already among his staff, issuing orders with the crackle of rapid fire. A junior cook to the main kitchen, there to seize seven turkeys roasting for tomorrow’s cold collation … A shouted order to the preparation room: Use the reserves! Speed up! Carve everything in sight!… More vegetables! Steal some from the second banquet which looked like using less than allowed!… A second junior sent running to the main kitchen to round up all vegetables he could find elsewhere … And deliver a message: rush up more help! Two carvers, two more cooks … Alert the pastry chef! One hundred and seventy more desserts required in minutes … Rob Peter for Paul! Juggle! Feed the dentists! Young André Lemieux, quick thinking, confident, good natured, running the show.
Already, waiters were being reassigned: some smoothly withdrawn from the smaller banquet of Gold Crown Cola, where those remaining must do extra work. Diners would never notice; only, perhaps, that their next course would be served by someone with a vaguely different face. Other waiters, already assigned to the Grand Ballroom and the dentists, would handle three tables—twenty-seven place settings—instead of two. A few seasoned hands, known to be fast with feet and fingers, might manage four. There would be some grumbling, though not much. Convention waiters were mostly freelancers, called in by any hotel as requirements rose. Extra work earned extra money. Four dollars’ pay for three hours’ work was based on two tables; each extra table brought half as much again. Tips, added to a convention’s bill by prior arrangement, would double the entire amount. The fast-feet men would go home with sixteen dollars; if lucky, they might have earned the same at lunch or breakfast.
A trolley with three fresh-cooked turkeys, Peter saw, was already highballing from a service elevator. The preparation-room cooks fell upon it. The assistant cook who had brought the three returned for more.
Fifteen portions from a turkey. Rapid dissection with surgeon’s skill. To each diner the same proportion: white meat, dark meat, dressing. Twenty portions to a serving tray. Rush the tray to a service counter. Fresh trolleys of vegetables, steaming in like ships converging.
The sous-chef’s dispatch of messengers had depleted the serving team. André Lemieux stepped in, replacing the absent two. The team picked up speed, moved faster than it had before.
Plate … meat … first vegetable … second … gravy … slide the plate… cover on! A man for each move; arms, hands, ladles moving together. A meal each second … faster still! In front of the serving counter, a line of waiters, becoming long.
Across the kitchen, the pastry chef opening refrigerators; inspecting, selecting, slamming the doors closed. Main kitchen pastry cooks running to help. Draw on reserve desserts. More on the way from basement freezers.
Amid the urgency, a moment of incongruity.
A waiter reported to a captain, the captain to the head waiter, the head waiter to André Lemieux.
“Chef, there’s a gentleman says he doesn’t like turkey. May he have rare roast beef?”
A shout of laughter went up from the sweating cooks.
But the request had observed protocol correctly, as Peter knew. Only the senior chef could authorize any deviation from a standard menu.
A grinning Andre Lemieux said, “He may have it, but serve him last at his table.”
That, too, was an old kitchen custom. As a matter of public relations, most hotels would change standard fare if asked, even if the substitute meal was costlier. But invariably—as now—the individualist must wait until those seated near him had begun eating, a precaution against others being inspired with the same idea.
Now the line of waiters at the serving counter was shortening. To most guests in the Grand Ballroom—latecomers included—the main course had been served. Already bus boys were appearing with discarded dishes. There was a sense of crisis passed. André Lemieux surrendered his place among the servers, then glanced questioningly at the pastry chef.
The latter, a matchstick of a man who looked as if he seldom sampled his own confections, made a circle with thumb and forefinger. “All set to go, Chef.”
André Lemieux, smiling, rejoined Peter. “Monsieur, it seems we ’ave, as you say it, fielded the ball.”
“I’d say you’ve done a good deal better. I’m impressed.”
The young Frenchman shrugged. “What you have seen was good. But it is one part only of the work. Elsewhere we do not look so well. Excuse me, monsieur.” He moved away.
The dessert was bombe aux marrons, cherries flambées. It would be served with ceremony, the ballroom lights dimmed, the flaming trays held high.
Now, waiters were lining up before the service doors. The pastry chef and helpers were checking arrangement of the trays. When touched off, a central dish on each would spring to flame. Two cooks stood by with lighted tapers.
André Lemieux inspected the line.
At the entry to the Grand Ballroom, the head waiter, an arm raised, watched the sous-chef’s face.
As André Lemieux nodded, the head waiter’s arm swept down.
The cooks with tapers ran down the line of trays, igniting them. The double service doors were flung back and fastened. Outside, on cue, an electrician dimmed the lights. The music of an orchestra diminished, then abruptly stopped. Among guests in the great hall, a hum of conversation died.
Suddenly, beyond the diners, a spotlight sprang on, framing the doorway from the kitchen. There was a second’s silence, then a fanfare of trumpets. As it ended, orchestra and organ swung together, fortissimo, into the opening bars of The Saints. In time to the music, the procession of waiters, with flaming trays, marched out.
Peter McDermott moved into the Grand Ballroom for a better view. He could see the overflow, unexpected crowd of diners, the great room tightly packed.
Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go marching in… From the kitchen, waiter after waiter, in trim blue uniform, marched out in step. For this moment, every last man had been impressed. Some, in moments only, would return to complete their work in the other banquet hall. Now, in semidarkness, their flames reared up like beacons … Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go marching in … From the diners, a spontaneous burst of applause, changing to handclapping in time with the music as waiters encircled the room. For the hotel, a commitment had been met as planned. No one outside the kitchen could know that minutes earlier a crisis had been encountered and overcome … Lord, I want to be in that number, When the Saints go marching in … As waiters reached their tables, the lights went up to renewed applause and cheers.
André Lemieux had come to stand beside Peter. “That is the all for tonight, monsieur. Unless, perhaps you ’ave a wish for the cognac. In the kitchen I have the small supply.”
“No, thank you.” Peter smiled. “It was a good show. Congratulations!”
As he turned away, the sous-chef called after him, “Good night, monsieur. And do not forget.”
Puzzled, Peter stopped. “Forget what?”
“What I have already said. The ’ot-shot ’otel, monsieur, that you and I could make.”
Half amused, half thoughtful, Peter threaded his way through the banquet tables toward the ballroom outer doorway.
He had gone most of the distance when he was aware of something out of place. He stopped, glancing around, uncertain what it was. Then abruptly he realized. Dr. Ingram, the fiery little president of the Dentistry Congress, should have been presiding at this, one of the main events of the convention. But the doctor was neither at the president’s position nor anywhere else at the long head table.
Several delegates were table hopping, greeting friends in other sections of the room. A man with a hearing aid stopped beside Peter. “Swell turnout, eh?”
“It certainly is. I hope you enjoyed your dinner.”
“Not bad.”
“By the way,” Peter said. “I was looking for Dr. Ingram. I don’t see him anywhere.”
“You won’t.” The tone was curt
. Eyes regarded him suspiciously. “You from a newspaper?”
“No, the hotel. I met Dr. Ingram a couple of times …”
“He resigned. This afternoon. If you want my opinion, he behaved like a damn fool.”
Peter controlled his surprise. “Do you happen to know if the doctor is still in the hotel?”
“No idea.” The man with the hearing aid moved on.
There was a house phone on the convention mezzanine.
Dr. Ingram, the switchboard reported, was still shown as registered, but there was no answer from his room. Peter called the chief cashier. “Has Dr. Ingram of Philadelphia checked out?”
“Yes, Mr. McDermott, just a minute ago. I can see him in the lobby now.”
“Send someone to ask if he’ll please wait. I’m on my way down.”
Dr. Ingram was standing, suitcases beside him, a raincoat over his arm, when Peter arrived.
“What’s your trouble now, McDermott? If you want a testimonial to this hotel, you’re out of luck. Besides which, I’ve a plane to catch.”
“I heard about your resignation. I came to say I’m sorry.”
“I guess they’ll make out.” From the Grand Ballroom two floors above, the sound of applause and cheering drifted down to where they stood. “It sounds as if they have already.”
“Do you mind very much?”
“No.” The little doctor shifted his feet, looking down, then growled, “I’m a liar. I mind like hell. I shouldn’t, but I do.”
Peter said, “I imagine anyone would.”
Dr. Ingram’s head snapped up. “Understand this, McDermott: I’m no beaten rug. I don’t need to feel like one. I’ve been a teacher all my life, with plenty to show for it: Good people I’ve brought on—Jim Nicholas for one, and others, procedures carrying my name, books I’ve written that are standard texts. All that’s solid stuff. The other”—he nodded in the direction of the Grand Ballroom—”that’s frosting.”