Often the same men are responsible for both. A History of the Late Revolution in France,by Maxim Chevelin SARAH STOOD IN the kitchens with flour up to her elbows. As she kneaded the dough, she sneaked a rapid gaze around. There must be over fifty servants, hurrying in and out, snatching up dishes, yelling in French. The tallest chef, a man in a white coat, tasted and basted and broke into rages so incandescent she thought he would explode. An entourage of minor cooks fled at his command like mice from a cat. “Keep your head down, girl!” Madame Lepage whisked behind her, half hidden behind a pile of linen tablecloths. The old woman was small and wizened and smelled of onions. Her skin was olive and her eyes dark beads of greed; she bore no resemblance to Sarah. So the aunt story was stupid. But no one here had time to care. This kitchen, and the one behind it, and the dairy and scullery and ice room and larders were a tumult of cooking, baking, roasting, toasting, of crashes of dishes, slamming of plates, the roaring of the fires, the crackle of fat dripping from skewered hogs on the great turn spits.
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