cress, which always had to be made up fresh); "Sliced
peaches!" (they could never be sliced in advance); "One order orange
juice!" "Toast for club!" then how one's fingers sped!

The wonder of it was no one ever seemed to lose his patience or his
temper. That is, nobody out our way. Maybe in the cafe there was some
millionaire hastily en route to a game of golf who cursed the universe
in general and the clumsy fingers of some immigrant pantry girl in
particular. (Not so fearfully clumsy either.)

Between 2 and 2.30 the rush subsided, and that first day I caught my
breath and took time to note the lay of the land.

My compartment came first, directly next the dishes. Next me was a
beautiful chef with his white cap set on at just the chef angle. He
was an artist, with a youngster about fifteen as his assistant. Some
day that youngster will be a more beautiful chef than his master and
more of an artist. His master, I found out in my slack hours that
first afternoon, was French, with little English at his command,
though six years in this country. I know less French than he does
English, but we got to be good friends over the low partition which
separated us. There was nothing at all fresh or affectionate about
that French chef. I showed my gratitude for that by coming over in the
afternoon and helping him slice hot potatoes for potato salad while my
floor got washed. Every day I made him a bow and said, "_Bon jour,
Monsieur le Bon Chef_," which may be no French at all. And every day
he made me a bow back and said, "_Bon jour_" something or other, which
I could tell was nice and respectful, but--I can't write it down.
Monsieur Le Bon Chef made splendid cold works of art in jellies, and
salads which belonged to another realm than my poor tomatoes and
lettuce. Also, he and his assistant--the assistant was Spanish--made
wonder sandwiches. They served jellied soups from their counter. Poor
humble me would fill "One order graham crackers, little one!" But to
Monsieur Le Bon Chef it would be "Two Cream of Cantaloupes!" "One
chicken salad!" "One (our hotel) Plate!" (What a creation of a little
of everything that was!) Monsieur Le Bon Chef taught me some tricks of
the trade, but this is no treatise on domestic science.

I will tell you about Monsieur Le Bon Chef, though by no means did I
learn this all my first afternoon. I only picked up a little here and
there, now and then. He came to this country a French immigrant from
nea