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��Fifth Avenue Hotel.

��revolved by a small stationary engine near by. Six large turkeys were being deliciously browned before a glowing fire, under the eye of a gentleman who appar- ently revelled in a temperature of 120° in the shade. At the end of the room sev- eral immense boilers were operating upon fish and meat, while at the second row of ranges on the other side of the room seven or eight women were tiirning out vegetables of all sorts ready for the table. Down the centre of the apartment ran a long table, on which were all sorts of culinary utensils, and at one end of this a steam apparatus for keeping warm the sauces and entrees. The whole scene was one to make an epicure smile or a tramp weep.

The carving-room was about fifty feet by thirty, and on two sides the walls and tables were hidden by crockery, glass- ware, and cutlery ready for use. Nearest the dining-room was a long, heavily built table, in which were sunk the heating vessels for roasts and boils, as well as the soups. Opening off this apartment was the fruit-room, presided over by a young woman. As she moved about among the luscious piles, the combination formed by far the prettiest picture to be seen within these precincts of mystery. In and out of the carving-room rushed the waiters, bearing steaming dishes to make the mouth water.

" Where do the waiters get the bread and pastry ? I do n't see it here."

" The bread they get from an elevator in the kitchen, where it is sent up from the bakery ; but they have to go down for the pasti-y."

" Is it all made in the house ? "

" Yes, sir ; there 's half a dozen bakers at work down there all the time. People in a hotel eat more pastry than people at home. I do n't know why, but they do."

Chef Feraud, who has been going this daily round of life in the same house for over a quarter of a century, is a difficult man to disconcert in the feeding of a fashionable army.

��" How do you start your day so as not to get muddled?" he was asked.

" Oh ! it 's simple enough. The steward gets from the clerk a calculation of the number of guests to be cared for, which may be anywhere between three hundred and six hundred. He orders his stock according to this, and turns over to me a list of the stock on hand in the morn- ing. From this list I make up my bill of fare, set my men to work, as you have seen, and there yovi are."

" But do not people sometimes call for extraordinai-y dishes or things which you have not got on your bill of fare or stock list?"

" Of course they do — and they get them. If a man chooses to insist on having something not down on the bill, instead of raising a row we give it to him. If it is not in the house, we send out and get it, if he is willing to wait awhile to be pleased. As to extraordinary dishes, many are called for, but its a very extra- ordinary dish, indeed, that we cannot get up in here."

" Can you give any idea of what con- sumption of provisions there is in a day?"

" Well, there were about five hundred guests here to-day, and as an illustration of the provision necessary, we used up, among the fowl, forty turkeys and sixty- five chickens, and we served up eight hun- dred and sixty pounds of beef and thirty- six sides of mutton, besides eighty pies, and two hvmdred or three hundred loaves of bread. Perhaps that will give you an idea."

" Is there much waste ? "

" Very little. What is not served is consumed by the employes, and then what is left goes to some charity, such as the Little Sisters of the Poor, and that is n't waste, you know."

"I suppose a man must love this pro- fession to become an expert at it, the same as in other artistic callings ? "

" You are right. A chef should be a proud man. Place the artist who pleases

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