THE COMMUNISTS’ CO-OPERATIVE KITCHEN.

Dunstan Times, Issue 523, 26 April 1872, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE COMMUNISTS’ CO-OPERA-TIVE KITCHEN.

There are plenty of "French batinghouses in London, and especially in the Soho quaHier ! but none are to be compared with th epopotte desre/agies, situated in a dark corner near Tottenham Court Road. Can the haughty dictators of the Hotel de Yille frequent such a dirty and desolate thoroughfare 1 Let the reader fortunate enough to know his way station himself at certain hour’s at the top of the passage wherein lies the Communists res tauraunt, and he may see a series of types worth studying; and if he has chanced to meet these men in better days, he will not easily identify the swaggering heroes of Arril 1871 in Paris whh the downcast and miserable figures which stand now under his "aze. Shabby jackets and blouses were at first substituted for the elegant uniform of the insurgent officer; the coquetish kepi was sacrificed lor a greasy hat or cap : and the splendid top boots with their spurs, that used to ring on the kerb of the Place de guerre, were hastily destroyed after the defeat* for fear such pieces de conviction might cost the life of their owners. The sword, the revolver, the epaulettes, and all that mass of gold which the Reds used to de'ight in, in spite of their professed hatred for “ luxury and useless ornaments,” has all vanished as rapidly as it was acquired. This is why General This and Colonel That, in ragged coats and split shoes, puff at a short clay pipe instead of a cigar, and scarcely look like the shadows of their former selves. A conspicuous member of the Commune, who follows, has lost the victorious gait and t evolutionnaire jauntiness which made the ladies of Montrouge so fond of him, and as he walks slowly towards the queer eating house, he seems as if he had had quite enough of revolutions. At all events, his piteous garb is not that of a millionaire ! and he would not, probably be repairing to the “ marmite” if he had made mueli profit out of his exalted position in the French capital. There are chefs d’etat major, colonels, and commanders by hundreds, and scarcely any men of the lower class—these last having had less facilities to escape abroad. The numerous Communists now in London are the elite of the Parisian insurgents, those who occupie 1 the principal posts in the Government Administration, and left the movement; and therefore the men who ’attend the restaurant are not the vulgar herd, but those who

provoked the insurrection and excited it to desperate resistance. Now for the description of the place in its various and enterprising aspects, There used to be a similar cuisine in llupert Street a few months ago, but the refugees abandoned Leicester Square for Rathbone Place, hoping to find there the cheapness which the scantiness of their means required. They have partially succeeded, and, in fact, the Rupert Street “eating room” was a palace in comparison with their new resort. The house is not cask to find, and access to the restaura nt is obtained by climbing three flights of a dark and ricketty staircase. At last we reach a landing where hum in voices are heard, the words, cest id are seen inscribed on a piece of card boar 1, and a fragrance combined with tobacco-smoke salutes the nostrils. The aspect of the apartment, when entrance is gained, recalls the suburban cabarets of Paris, or the drinkinj shops in the outer ring of Boulevards. One side of the attic consists of a long window extending from one end of the apartment to the other, and overlooking the roofs and chimneo pots of Newman Street and Rathbone Place. There are several broad beams from which are hanging large pieces of meat. Two or three Com mini its are standing before an enormous fire-place and preparing the fare of the day, which generally consists of a single dish of meat. There are neither glasses, forks, nor knives ; and the refugees who possess such utensils pass them to their comrades. Now and then a citoyen descends and fetches a can of small beer from the neighboring public-house. The most perfect equality exists in the distribution of the eatables; and the cooks make the most of the little they have, tutting at a long table, the Communists discuss their dinner, and naturally talk of their past grandeur. The most curious types appear here again ; here is the eiudiant of the Boulevard St. Michel, who joined the revolution more out of love for noise and confusion than out of devotion for the cause of Communism. Here is also the traditional Revolutionist, the habitue of the cafes of the Quartier Latin, whose eloquence was wont to delight the students of the Sorbonne. A delegate of the Commune at tho Perfecture of Police stands up, and vows he intends to demand the function of public executioner, at the next revolution, so as to exercise summary vengeance upon the bourgeoise which forces him to “ eat the bitter fare of exile.” M. Thiers and the National Assembly are every day tried, condemned, and summarily executed, at the board of the co-operative kitchen, and social plans for the regeneration of humankind are constantly and vehemently discussed. One man quotes Proudhon, a second, Fourier; a third shreiks the name of Auguste Corate; while a fourth declares that Marat was “ the best man," and all theoretical socialists area set of raving maniacs. This last sentiment

generally rallies the majority, and the end of all arguments is the dtlenda est Carthago applied* without exception, to all enemies of socialism. The ccoks often leave their saucepans to take care of themselves, and join in the discussion. The immortal Cabot would be rather astonished at the manner in which his phalansterian theories are carried out in the “ Marmite cooperative.”