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A review by notwellread
Pages From a Scullion's Diary by George Orwell
4.0
4.5 stars.
This little volume is comprised of excerpts from Orwell’s [b:Down and Out in Paris and London|393199|Down and Out in Paris and London|George Orwell|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1347697665l/393199._SY75_.jpg|2374970], specifically from his time working as a plongeur (i.e. a scullion/dishwasher) in a Paris hotel when he was 25. This position being at the bottom of the culinary hierarchy, it was an easy enough position for him to get as a placeholder during this impoverished period of his life, but this pamphlet doesn’t dwell so much on Orwell’s own experiences, taking a broader view of the ‘world’ of culinary workers as a sort of subculture of Parisian life.
The work itself is very gruelling — long hours of manual labour for little pay — but it is the rhythm of life he finds and the sense of community with other workers that give the plongeur’s life colour and make the book interesting. He describes his “contentment” with the simplicity of his life, finding “a rhythm between work and sleep” on working days, and at the weekend, getting drunk with his colleagues: “his Paris has shrunk to the hotel, the Métro, a few bistros and his bed”. It seems Paris has a certain hedonistic charm to offer even for the poor underbelly of the city: even the descriptions of seedy apartments and garrets have a distinctive Parisian vibe. It’s also enjoyable to see how he made the most of a bad situation, enduring lots of drudgery but still finding the time to get wasted with his friends. Not bad for an Etonian.
Beyond Orwell’s own experiences and into his observations, I thought it was funny that he considers waiters to be in an ‘aspirational’ sort of role, relating more to the guests than to their fellow workers. He notes that they are rarely socialists — I wonder if this is still the case. Rather disturbingly, he also treats us to how unhygienic these high-end restaurants used to be:
When a steak, for instance, is brought up for the head cook’s inspection, he does not handle it with a fork. He picks it up in his fingers and slaps it down, runs his thumb round the dish and licks it to taste the gravy, runs it round and licks again, then steps back and contemplates the piece of meat like an artist judging a picture, then presses it lovingly into place with his fat, pink fingers, every one of which he has licked a hundred times that morning. When he is satisfied, he takes a cloth and wipes his fingerprints from the dish, and hands it to the waiter. And the waiter, of course, dips his fingers into the gravy—his nasty, greasy fingers which he is for ever running through his brilliantined hair. Whenever one pays more than, say, ten francs for a dish of meat in Paris, one may be certain that it has been fingered in this manner…Roughly speaking, the more one pays for food, the more sweat and spittle one is obliged to eat with it.
Hopefully food safety laws have seen to this since.
The dismissiveness of cooks towards ‘lesser’ staff (i.e. anyone who doesn’t actually make the food) is certainly something I found relatable, having witnessed it myself in my brief stint as a waitress at a not-so-fancy establishment seven years ago, as was the stressful pile-up of tasks during the busiest periods, but I think anyone who’s worked a service job will be familiar with the intensity of ‘peak times’, which are of course always made worse in restaurants by the fact that every order must be individually prepared.
The little anecdotes from other ‘characters’ are very funny and allow us to see the same Parisian environment from a French perspective, and from those deeper into it than Orwell (for whom this was just a temporary situation).. Not really related to the rest of the narrative but amusing nevertheless.
It ends quite abruptly, but it’s only an excerpt after all. I will certainly still check out the whole book at some point.
This little volume is comprised of excerpts from Orwell’s [b:Down and Out in Paris and London|393199|Down and Out in Paris and London|George Orwell|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1347697665l/393199._SY75_.jpg|2374970], specifically from his time working as a plongeur (i.e. a scullion/dishwasher) in a Paris hotel when he was 25. This position being at the bottom of the culinary hierarchy, it was an easy enough position for him to get as a placeholder during this impoverished period of his life, but this pamphlet doesn’t dwell so much on Orwell’s own experiences, taking a broader view of the ‘world’ of culinary workers as a sort of subculture of Parisian life.
The work itself is very gruelling — long hours of manual labour for little pay — but it is the rhythm of life he finds and the sense of community with other workers that give the plongeur’s life colour and make the book interesting. He describes his “contentment” with the simplicity of his life, finding “a rhythm between work and sleep” on working days, and at the weekend, getting drunk with his colleagues: “his Paris has shrunk to the hotel, the Métro, a few bistros and his bed”. It seems Paris has a certain hedonistic charm to offer even for the poor underbelly of the city: even the descriptions of seedy apartments and garrets have a distinctive Parisian vibe. It’s also enjoyable to see how he made the most of a bad situation, enduring lots of drudgery but still finding the time to get wasted with his friends. Not bad for an Etonian.
Beyond Orwell’s own experiences and into his observations, I thought it was funny that he considers waiters to be in an ‘aspirational’ sort of role, relating more to the guests than to their fellow workers. He notes that they are rarely socialists — I wonder if this is still the case. Rather disturbingly, he also treats us to how unhygienic these high-end restaurants used to be:
When a steak, for instance, is brought up for the head cook’s inspection, he does not handle it with a fork. He picks it up in his fingers and slaps it down, runs his thumb round the dish and licks it to taste the gravy, runs it round and licks again, then steps back and contemplates the piece of meat like an artist judging a picture, then presses it lovingly into place with his fat, pink fingers, every one of which he has licked a hundred times that morning. When he is satisfied, he takes a cloth and wipes his fingerprints from the dish, and hands it to the waiter. And the waiter, of course, dips his fingers into the gravy—his nasty, greasy fingers which he is for ever running through his brilliantined hair. Whenever one pays more than, say, ten francs for a dish of meat in Paris, one may be certain that it has been fingered in this manner…Roughly speaking, the more one pays for food, the more sweat and spittle one is obliged to eat with it.
Hopefully food safety laws have seen to this since.
The dismissiveness of cooks towards ‘lesser’ staff (i.e. anyone who doesn’t actually make the food) is certainly something I found relatable, having witnessed it myself in my brief stint as a waitress at a not-so-fancy establishment seven years ago, as was the stressful pile-up of tasks during the busiest periods, but I think anyone who’s worked a service job will be familiar with the intensity of ‘peak times’, which are of course always made worse in restaurants by the fact that every order must be individually prepared.
The little anecdotes from other ‘characters’ are very funny and allow us to see the same Parisian environment from a French perspective, and from those deeper into it than Orwell (for whom this was just a temporary situation).
Spoiler
I particularly liked the story of the man who prays to a portrait of Sainte Éloise, but ends up having his life saved by the very girl whom he rudely insults in his narrative as a ‘fat peasant’ — in fact ‘Sainte Éloise’ on the wall is simply the famous prostitute that this district of Paris is named after. I also liked the story of the man who sends his girlfriend to pretend to be pregnant at a place where they give food to expecting women, only to see by chance one of the women who helped her there. When the woman asks about the pregnancy, and she says ‘no’ when asked if she had a boy or a girl, the man replies that they had twins, saving the moment.It ends quite abruptly, but it’s only an excerpt after all. I will certainly still check out the whole book at some point.