“Can you fix salads?”
“Sure!”
“You think you could do the job?”
“Sure!”
“Well, you look as if you could. Never mind the letter, but get one to have by you—comes in handy any job you want. Now about pay—I can't pay you what you been used to getting, at least not first month.” (I'd mentioned nothing as to wages.) “Second month maybe more. First month all I can pay you is fifty and your meals. That all right?”
As usual, my joy at landing a job was such that any old pay was acceptable.
“Be back in two hours.”
Just then the employment man called out to the hall filled with waiting men, “No jobs for any men this morning.” I don't know what became of the old women.
I was back before my two hours were up, so anxious to begin. The employment man put on his hat and coat and dashed upstairs after my steward. Just incidentally, speaking of hats and coats, it can be mentioned that all this was in the middle of one of the hottest summers New York ever knew.
The steward led the way up one flight of iron stairs and into the main kitchen. Wasn't I all eyes to see what was what! If anyone is looking for a bit of muck-raking about the hinterland of restaurants, let him not bother to read farther. Nothing could have been cleaner than the kitchen conditions in our hotel. And orders up and down the line were to serve nothing which was not absolutely as it should be.