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whose arms and hands seemed everywhere at once. Waiters were
questioning progress of their orders as cooks cried back. Other waiters,
with loaded trays, moved quickly past two women-checkers at elevated
billing registers. From the soup section, vapor rose as giant cauldrons
bubbled. Not far away two specialist cooks arranged, with skilful
fingers, canapes and hot hors-d'oeuvres. Beyond them, a worried pastry
chef supervised dessert. Occasionally, as oven doors opened, a
reflection of flames flashed over concentrating faces, with the ovens’
interior like a glimpse of hell. Over all was clatter of plates, the inviting
odor of food and the sweet, fresh fragrance of brewing coffee.
”When we are the busiest, monsieur, we are the proudest. Or
should be, if not to look beneath the cabbage leaf... Monsieur, I must
visit the convention floor. Would you, please, come with me?”
”Thank you. I’ll come.”
They rode in a service elevator two floors up, entering what was
nearly a copy of the main kitchen below. From here about two thousand
meals could be served at a single sitting to the hotel's three convention
halls and a dozen private dining-rooms. The tempo at the moment was
as hellish as downstairs.
”As you know, monsieur, we have two big banquets tonight. In the
Grand Ballroom and the Bienville Hall.”
Peter nodded, ”Yes, the Dentists' Congress and Gold Crown
Cola.”
From the flow of meals towards opposite ends of a 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 courses, apportioning vegetables with machine-like rhythm, then, in
a single motion, putting metal covers on the filled plates and loading the
whole on to waiters' trays.
Nine plates to a tray - the number of delegates at a single table.
Two tables per waiter. Four courses to the meal, plus extra rolls, butter,
coffee and biscuits. Peter calculated: there would be twelve heavily
loaded trips, at least, for every waiter; most likely more if dinners were
demanding or extra tables were assigned. No wonder some waiters
looked tired at an evening's end.
Less tired, perhaps, would be the maitre d'hotel, poised and clean
in white tie and tails. At the moment he stood in the center of the kitchen
directing the flow of waiters in both directions. Seeing Lemieux and
Peter, he moved towards them.
”Good evening, Chef: Mr McDermott.”
Andre Lemieux asked, ”What are our numbers for dinner?”

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