RSS

Contact us

Sunday 7 September 2008

And Another Thing

Quality for dinner. Pass the Fairy Liquid, Old Boy

I have no objection to washing up. I prefer it to most other chores. When I was very small my mother allowed me to ‘help’ with the washing up. This meant doing the drying. I got praise for the thorough and conscientious way I did it, polishing the delicate pieces of old china till they reflected the light. My mother had a gift for making all dull jobs seem important and requiring craftsmanship. She said: ‘You’re a first-class dryer now.’ I preferred it to washing up in those days. Now it’s the reverse. I like putting on a big striped apron and taking over the sink. Normally the dishwasher takes all we use, but if there are a lot of guests I come into my own, dealing with the big saucepans and messy dishes, scouring with wire wool pads and brushes, handling expertly the silver forks and spoons, and making sure the wineglasses are properly and safely washed — afterwards drying them until they shine.

As I work, I sing old French advertising ditties I remember from the early 1950s, such as ‘Omo est là: la saleté s’en va!’ And I think of George Orwell. His Down and Out in Paris and London, a description of his extreme poverty in 1931–32, at the beginning of the Big Slump, and the terrible jobs he had to take just to stay alive, is his best book in my view, and certainly my favourite one of his. He had the inquisitive policeman’s nose for detail, and a deadpan way of setting it down. Among his other gruesome occupations was that of plongeur in the big Paris hotels, and later in a restaurant. The plongeur was the lowest male form of life in the catering trade. It is true that there was an even more abysmal level in the sculleries and outhouses performed by women. Only men were regarded as physically strong enough to be plongeurs, otherwise it would have been left to females. As it was, these men had to work at least a 12-hour day, sometimes as long as 17 hours, and during the climax of the breakfast, lunch and dinner services, the work was so intense, rapid and onerous that, when the pace slackened, they just lay down on the kitchen floor exhausted. Orwell says there was a staff of 100 to look after 200 guests at the hotel. He gives a blow-by-blow account of the heat, dirt, squalor, swearing, quarrelling and bullying which went on all the time among the staff.

More articles from: Paul Johnson | this section

Print this article  |  Email to a friend  |  Permalink  |   Comments (1)

Post this entry to:   del.icio.us | Digg | Newsvine | NowPublic | Reddit

Advertisement

Spectator Business | Apollo Magazine

Corporate | Advertising | Privacy | Terms

Spectator, 22 Old Queen Street, London, SW1H 9HP

All Articles and Content Copyright ©2008 by The Spectator | All Rights Reserved