“Now listen,” said Mario, halting on the pavement; “I would say a few final words.”
Gian-Luca stood still obediently, though he secretly wondered what there could be left to say, so much had been said already. It was ten o’clock, and since seven that morning Mario had never stopped talking. However, he was evidently still full of words which were no doubt better out than in.
“Now first,” said Mario, removing some dust from the corner of an eye with his thumb; “now first, you observe me in all that I do, and whenever you can, you do likewise. Now second, you are always smiling to the clients, even if they spit in your face—they do not quite spit, I speak figuratively, but one feels sometimes that they would like to. Now third, you move quickly; whatever you do, do it quickly and do not make a noise; a plate should be given or removed with a flourish, and yet it should seem to be arriving out of space—do not fumble with the hand, the hand should appear superfluous, but be careful not to spill the gravy. Now fourth, keep a quarter of an eye on the clients, but an eye and three-quarters on the Padrone; he has many little ways that are purely his own, for instance, a language of gestures. You must learn all his gestures and exactly what they mean, otherwise he may lift his voice—I have found it better to understand his gestures, it often saves trouble later on. The Padrone is a genius, and as such he has his moods, that is only to be expected; he appears to be impatient, that, however, is not so, he is probably thinking about a new dish that will some day make him famous. Now fifth, you must always wait on the Padrona and do whatever she asks you; she is beautiful, so the Padrone loves her—I do not think she on her part loves him, but that is none of our business. If you win the Padrona, you win the Padrone, and that makes an easier life; I myself am always most careful to win her, I have found that it more than pays. The Padrona controls all the dishes from the lift, you will have many dealings with her; she also controls all the wines and the spirits, but that need not concern you just yet. And sixth, never give away any secrets regarding the business of the house; every house, you will find, has a few little secrets; they are not for the public, they are not for the clients—”
Mario glanced at his watch. “Come on, come on! Already it is late,” he said, pushing Gian-Luca; “we have no time to stand here talking in the street!”
They began to hurry against the wind, Gian-Luca clutching his parcel. “This way!” cried Mario, as, arrived at the Capo, he led Gian-Luca through a grimy side-door, and down some steep stairs to the basement.
Gian-Luca had often been past the restaurant, but had never until now been inside its portals—the Padrone did not encourage visits from the friends and relations of his staff. Gian-Luca found himself standing by Mario in a narrow passage lit by one electric globe; the uneven stone floor was very far from clean, the walls were discolored with damp and mildew, and from somewhere out of sight came a furious voice, swearing loudly in Italian.
“The Padrone,” whispered Mario, in the awed tone of one who hears God speaking in His thunder.
They stood very still while the storm subsided, or rather until it betook itself upstairs, then Mario smiled nervously: “Come along to the kitchen, I will show you our chef, Moscatone.”
The kitchen was a vault quite devoid of daylight; like the passage it had one electric globe; in this case, however, the globe was more powerful, so that every defect jumped at once to the eye, and Gian-Luca decided that there were many. The cooking appeared to be all done by gas, judging from the huge gas stove and the smell; the smell of the kitchen was far from appetizing, consisting, as it did of greasy gas ovens, a stopped sink, and last night’s black beetles. Moscatone, a gigantic Neapolitan, was standing in the middle of the floor; his huge face was shining and splotched with temper:
“I will slay him! Corpo di Dio, I will slay him!” he rumbled, like a bursting volcano.
A scullion, busily peeling potatoes from a pan gripped between his knees, looked up with a smile.
“He is offal,” he murmured; “he is even less than offal—”
And he mentioned with some detail exactly and precisely what he was.
“Here is my friend Gian-Luca,” said Mario; “Gian-Luca, this is Moscatone; the very best chef in England we have here, that is why some day we will be famous.”
Moscatone’s anger blew away like a cloud, dispelled by his enormous guffaw. “Famous, the Capo! I think not, however—how do you do, Gian-Luca?”
Gian-Luca took the extended hand, which felt soft and unpleasantly greasy.
“He is going to learn to be a waiter under me,” put in Mario, with pride in his voice.
“Is that so?” said Moscatone, as though surprised. “He will learn under you, you say?” Then he changed the subject, for in spite of his temper he was really a kindhearted giant.
“Come along, you must change your clothes,” ordered Mario; “I will show you the way to the dressing-room, Gian-Luca.” And he led the way to a green baize door at the end of a long dark passage.
What
