r Toulouse six or so years ago, his heart full of dreams as to the
opportunities in America. Likely as not we might now have to add that,
after many searchings, he landed a job peeling potatoes at fifteen
dollars a month. Monsieur Le Bon Chef was no Bon Chef at all when he
landed--knew none of the tricks of "chefness" to speak of. His first
day in America he sought out an employment office. Not a word of
English could he speak. While the employment agent was just about to
shake his head and say, "Nothing to-day," a friend, or at least a
countryman, dashed up. "I have a job for you," said the countryman,
and he led my Bon Chef to New York's most aristocratic hotel. Monsieur
Le Bon Chef could not know there was a cooks' strike on. Down to the
kitchen they led him, and for some weeks he drew ten dollars a day
wages and his room and board right there at the hotel. To fall from
Toulouse into a ten-dollar-a-day job! And when one knew scarce more
than how to boil potatoes!

Of course, when the strike was over, there were no such wages paid as
ten dollars a day. Nothing like that was he earning these six years
later when he could make the beauteous works of art in jelly. I asked
him if he liked his work. He shrugged his shoulders and brushed one
side of his rather bristly blond mustache. "Na--no like so
much--nothing in it but the moaney--make good moaney." He shrugged
his shoulders again and brushed up the other side of his mustache. "No
good work just for tha moaney." You see he really is an artist. He was
my quiet, nice friend, Monsieur Le Bon Chef. Indeed, one night he gave
me a wondrously made empty cigar box with a little lock to it. "Ooh
La-la!" I cried, and made a very deep bow, and said in what I'm sure
was correct French--because Monsieur Le Bon Chef said it was--"Thank
you very much!"

So then, all there was on our side of the kitchen was my little
compartment and the not quite so little compartment of Monsieur Le Bon
Chef, whose confines reached around the corner a bit. Around that
corner and back a little way were two fat Porto-Rican women who washed
glasses and spoke no English. Beyond them, at the right of the stairs
going up to the main kitchen, were clean dishes. They came on
dumb-waiters from some place either above or below.

At the left of the stairs were some five chefs of as many
nationalities--Italian, Spanish, South American, French, Austrian, who
filled hot orders, frying and broiling and roasting. A