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Buttered Side Down: Stories

5. The Kitchen Side Of The Door
The City was celebrating New Year's Eve. Spelled thus, with a capital C, know it can
mean but New York. In the Pink Fountain room of the Newest Hotel all those grand old
forms and customs handed down to us for the occasion were being rigidly observed in all
their original quaintness. The Van Dyked man who looked like a Russian Grand Duke
(he really was a chiropodist) had drunk champagne out of the pink satin slipper of the
lady who behaved like an actress (she was forelady at Schmaus' Wholesale Millinery,
eighth floor). The two respectable married ladies there in the corner had been kissed by
each other's husbands. The slim, Puritan-faced woman in white, with her black hair so
demurely parted and coiled in a sleek knot, had risen suddenly from her place and walked
indolently to the edge of the plashing pink fountain in the center of the room, had stood
contemplating its shallows with a dreamy half-smile on her lips, and then had lifted her
slim legs slowly and gracefully over its fern-fringed basin and had waded into its chilling
midst, trailing her exquisite white satin and chiffon draperies after her, and scaring the
goldfish into fits. The loudest scream of approbation had come from the yellow-haired,
loose-lipped youth who had made the wager, and lost it. The heavy blonde in the
inevitable violet draperies showed signs of wanting to dance on the table. Her
companion--a structure made up of layer upon layer, and fold upon fold of flabby tissue--
knew all the waiters by their right names, and insisted on singing with the orchestra and
beating time with a rye roll. The clatter of dishes was giving way to the clink of glasses.
In the big, bright kitchen back, of the Pink Fountain room Miss Gussie Fink sat at her
desk, calm, watchful, insolent-eyed, a goddess sitting in judgment. On the pay roll of the
Newest Hotel Miss Gussie Fink's name appeared as kitchen checker, but her regular job
was goddessing. Her altar was a high desk in a corner of the busy kitchen, and it was an
altar of incense, of burnt-offerings, and of showbread. Inexorable as a goddess of the
ancients was Miss Fink, and ten times as difficult to appease. For this is the rule of the
Newest Hotel, that no waiter may carry his laden tray restaurantward until its contents
have been viewed and duly checked by the eye and hand of Miss Gussie Fink, or her
assistants. Flat upon the table must go every tray, off must go each silver dish-cover,
lifted must be each napkin to disclose its treasure of steaming corn or hot rolls. Clouds of
incense rose before Miss Gussie Fink and she sniffed it unmoved, her eyes, beneath level
brows, regarding savory broiler or cunning ice with equal indifference, appraising alike
lobster cocktail or onion soup, traveling from blue points to brie. Things a la and things
glace were all one to her. Gazing at food was Miss Gussie Fink's occupation, and just to
see the way she regarded a boneless squab made you certain that she never ate.
In spite of the I-don't-know-how-many (see ads) New Year's Eve diners for whom food
was provided that night, the big, busy kitchen was the most orderly, shining, spotless
place imaginable. But Miss Gussie Fink was the neatest, most immaculate object in all
that great, clean room. There was that about her which suggested daisies in a field, if you
know what I mean. This may have been due to the fact that her eyes were brown while
her hair was gold, or it may have been something about the way her collars fitted high,
and tight, and smooth, or the way her close white sleeves came down to meet her pretty
 
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