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After some hours spent in lofty chambers supported on stucco pillars, pasteboard arches, marble veneer stuffed with concrete, I pass through its rose-tinted hushed salons I descend by way of a concealed door to the kitchen regions: fetid holes, joined by labyrinthine dungeon-like corridors, stretching down beneath the glamour, floor after tortuous floor, stinking hot. Here the activity, the blazing heat of these airless floors that lie below the champagne and glitter, seems quite amazing, the hundred-odd chefs and commi chefs cooking in a sort of blind stupour.
Jeremy Sandford FanClub Archives
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