Favier at last got clear and went up the dining-room staircase. Since the enlargement of The Ladies' Paradise the refectories had been shifted to the fourth storey in the new buildings. As he hurried up he came upon Deloche and Liénard, so he fell back on Mignot, who was following on his heels.
“The deuce!” said he, in the corridor leading to the kitchen, opposite the blackboard on which the bill of fare was inscribed, “you can see it's stock-taking day. A regular feast! Chicken, or leg of mutton, and artichokes! Their mutton won't be much of a success!”
Mignot sniggered, murmuring, “Every one's going in for chicken, then!”
However, Deloche and Liénard had taken their portions and had gone away. Favier then leant over at the wicket and called out—“Chicken!”
But he had to wait; one of the kitchen helps had cut his finger in carving, and this caused some confusion. Favier stood there, with his face to the opening, looking into the kitchen with its giant appliances—the central range, over which two rails fixed to the ceiling brought forward, by a system of chains and pullies, the colossal coppers, which four men could not have lifted. Several cooks, quite white in the sombre red of the furnace, were attending to the evening soup coppers, mounted on iron ladders, armed with skimmers fixed on long handles. Then against the wall were grills large enough to roast martyrs on, saucepans big enough to cook a whole sheep in, a monumental plate-warmer, and a marble well kept full by a continual stream of water. To the left could be seen a washing-up place, stone sinks as large as ponds; whilst on the other side to the right, was an immense meat-safe, in which some large joints of red meat were hanging on steel hooks. A machine for peeling potatoes was working with the tic-tac of a mill. Two small trucks laden with freshly-picked salad were being wheeled along by some kitchen helps into the fresh air under a fountain.
“Chicken,” repeated Favier, getting impatient. Then, turning round, he added in a lower tone, “There's one fellow cut himself. It's disgusting, it's running over the food.”
Mignot wanted to see. Quite a string of shopmen had now arrived; there was a good deal of laughing and pushing. The two young men, their heads at the wicket, exchanged their remarks before this phalansterian kitchen, in which the least utensils, even the spits and larding pins, assumed gigantic proportions. Two thousand luncheons and two thousand dinners had to be served, and the number of employees was increasing every week. It was quite an abyss, into which was thrown daily something like forty-five bushels of potatoes, one hundred and twenty pounds of butter, and sixteen hundred pounds of meat; and at each meal they had to broach three casks of wine, over a hundred and fifty gallons were served out at the wine counter.
“Ah! at last!” murmured Favier when the cook reappeared with a large pan, out of which he handed him the leg of a fowl.
“Chicken,” said Mignot behind him.
And with their plates in their hands they both entered the refectory, after having taken their wine at the counter; whilst behind them the word “Chicken” was repeated without ceasing, regularly, and one could hear the cook picking up the pieces with his fork with a rapid and measured sound.