We left the domino in Henri's charge, and Mrs. Tota thought she would walk the few yards to the Palace. "If all dinners in private rooms are as pleasant as that, I rather think that I envy your elderly male relative," said Mrs. Tota as we emerged into Church Street.
24th January.
"If you will dine with me on Sunday night I will give you dinner in the most interesting private dining-room that any restaurant in London can show," I said to little Mrs. Tota.
"She'll do nothing of the sort," said George, her husband, from behind his paper.
"George!" said little Mrs. Tota, and there was a mixture of astonishment, query, and reproof in the way she spoke her husband's name.
George laid down his newspaper. "Since you took her to dine in that private room at Kettner's nothing has been good enough for her. She would like amaître d'hôteland a head waiter dancing round her at every meal, and she can't go out of the front door without looking round to see if there is a manager there to bow her out."
"You are perfectly horrid, George," said little Mrs. Tota with some asperity. "You won't take me out yourself, and when other people are kind enough to offer to do so you are as cross and sarcastic as you can be."
George looked at me with the corners of his mouth drawn up by a suppressed smile, and his left eyebrow twitched as if he felt inclined to wink. I poured oil on the troubled waters. If Mrs. Tota, with her husband's permission, would dine with me at Pagani's on Sunday we would dine in the public dining-room on the first floor, and look afterwards at the drawings and signatures in the celebrated little room on the second floor.
"It is real good of you to take the wife out," said George, as he saw me off the premises. "I hate going out at night, as you know, but she enjoys it all thoroughly. She chattered about that last dinner for a good month."
On the Saturday I went to Pagani's, secured a table for the next evening in the room on the first floor, a very pretty dining-room with soft blue curtains to the windows, a blue paper on the walls, shaded electric lights, and a little bow-window at the back, which makes the snuggest of nooks. Then M. Giuseppe Pagani, one of the two proprietors, having appeared, we talked over the important matter of the menu. The difficulty that vexed our minds was whetherfilets de sole Paganiorturbot à la Pellegriniwould best suit a lady's appetite. Finally the sole won the day. I hesitated a moment over theBortschsoup, for it has become almost as much a standing dish ascroûte au potin most restaurants; butBortschis the customary Sunday soup at Pagani's, so it had to be included in the menu.
This was our list completed:—
Hors-d'œuvre variés.Potage Bortsch.Filets de sole Pagani.Tournedos aux truffes.Haricots verts sautés. Pommes croquettes.Perdreau Voisin. Salade.Soufflé au curaçoa.
At eight o'clock on Sunday I was waiting for Mrs. Tota in the arched entrance which is one of the distinctive features of the modern Pagani's. Glazed grey tiles front the whole of the ground floor, the rest of the building being red brick, and the deep entrance arches are supported by squat little blue pillars. The curve of the arches are set with rows of electric light, which give the little restaurant the appearance of having been illuminated for a fête every night.
"Now mind, I want to see everything, and be told who everybody is," said Mrs. Tota as she got out of the cab, and I promised to do my best to carry out her wishes, and suggested that we should peep into the room on the ground floor before we went upstairs.
The long room, with its golden paper, its mirrors painted with flowers and trellis-work, its little counter piled with fruit, was crowded with diners, not one of the many little tables being vacant. A great hum of talk fell on our ears, and many of the gentlemen at the tables were gesticulating as only foreigners can. I told Mrs. Tota that at least half the guests were musicians or singers, and immediately she was all attention.One gentleman, with long hair and a close-clipped beard, she recognised as a well-known violinist; and a gentleman with a black moustache and a great bush of rebellious hair, she identified as a celebrated baritone, though he looked strange, she thought, without a frock-coat, lavender kid gloves, and a roll of music in his hands.
In the blue room on the first floor the tables were mostly occupied by couples, and Mrs. Tota wished to know if this was where the married musicians came. The gentleman with the clean-shaven face at the next table to ours, deep in conversation with a very pretty lady in a fur toque, was certainly a doctor, and the gentleman with a white moustache, who had secured the table in the little bow-window, was evidently a soldier; the two ladies diningtête-à-têtedid not look musical, but on the first floor, as on the ground floor, the majority of the guests were evidently of the artistic temperament.
TheBortschwas excellent, and when thesole Paganimade its appearance M. Meschini, the partner of M. Pagani, came to our table to ask whether the dish was approved of. "It is beautiful," said little Mrs. Tota. "What are the wonderful little pink things with such a delicious taste?" M. Meschini, without moving a muscle of his face, told her that they were shrimps, which, with fresh mushrooms andmoules, help to give a distinctiveness to this excellent dish. "How was I to know a shrimp without his head and tail and scales?" said Mrs. Tota, when M. Meschini had moved on.
Mrs. Tota ate some of thetournedos truffés,and gave her opinion that the truffles were perfectly heavenly; but I preferred to wait for the partridge and its casserole, with all its savoury surroundings. M. Notari, the chef, is an artist in his kitchen, and nowhere in London could we have found a better-cooked bird.
To establish my claim to be critical, I said that I had tasted bettersoufflés, but Mrs. Tota, telling me that I was a pampered Sybarite, ate her helping with perfect content. The two pints of Veuve Clicquot we drank were excellent, and with a Biscuit Pagani, two cups of Café Pagani and liqueurs, we ended a very good dinner.
I paid my bill: bread and butter, 4d.; hors-d'œuvre, 6d.; soup, 1s. 6d.; fish, 2s.; joint, 2s.; game, 5s.; vegetables, 1s.; sweets, 1s. 6d.; ices, 1s.; salad, 10d.; wine, 14s.; coffee, 1s.; liqueurs, 2s. 6d.; total, £1: 13: 2, and then asked M. Meschini to take us upstairs and show us the private dining-room, which is known as the artists' room.
When we came to the little room with its ruby velvet curtains and mantel drapings, its squares of what looks like brown paper, at about the height of a man's head, covered with drawings and writings, and protected by glass, its framed drawings and paintings, Mrs. Tota turned to me and asked me if I often brought my invalid maiden aunt to dine here.
"Invalid maiden aunt?" I said with astonishment, but remembered in a second that I had mentioned some such relative (or was it an uncle?) when we dined in the private room at Kettner's. Mrs. Tota laughed and turned toM. Meschini, who was beginning to explain the various works of art.
The name of Julia Neilson, written in bold characters, catches the eye as soon as any other inscription on these sections of a wall of days gone by; but it is well worth while to take the panels one by one, and to go over these sections of brown plaster inch by inch. Mascagni has written the first bars of one of the airs from "Cavalleria Rusticana," Denza has scribbled the opening bars of "Funiculi, Funicula," Lamoureux has written a tiny hymn of praise to the cook, Ysaye has lamented that he is always tied to "notes," which, with a waiter and a bill at his elbow, might have a double meaning. Phil May has dashed some caricatures upon the wall, a well-meant attempt on the part of a German waiter to wash one of these out having resulted in the "sack" of the said waiter and the glazing of the wall. Mario has drawn a picture of a fashionable lady, and Val Prinsep and a dozen artists of like calibre have, in pencil, or sepia, or pastel, noted brilliant trifles on the wall. Paderewski, Pucchini, Chaminade, Calvé, Piatti, Plançon, De Lucia, Melba, Menpes, Tosti, are some of the signatures; and as little Mrs. Tota read the names she became as serious as if she were in church, for this little chamber is in its way a temple dedicated to the artistic great who have dined.
17th December.
I asked M. Meschini if he would be so kind as to give me therecettefor thefilets de sole Pagani, and here it is just as he wrote it down for me.
The sole is first of all filleted, and with the bones, some mussels, and a little white wine, afumée de poissonis made in which the fillets of the sole are then cooked.
The cook takes thiscuisson, and by adding some well-chopped fresh mushrooms, makes with that what he calls aréduction; to this he adds somevelouté, little cream, fresh butter, some lemon juice, pepper and salt, and cooks the whole together till well mixed, then passes ità l'étamine. With this the sauce is made. The cooked fillets of sole and eight or ten mussels are then placed ready on a silver dish, and the above made sauce poured over them. The top is well sprinkled with fresh Parmesan cheese, and after allowing them togratinerfor a minute or two, are ready to be put on the customer's table.
The Princess was passing through town, and wrote that she would graciously deign to dine with me.
The responsibility of giving dinner to a Princess, even though she be not a British Princess, but the bearer of an Italian title, is no light one. Claridge's, "the home of kings," occurred to me at once as the right restaurant at which to entertain Her Highness, for the new and stately hotel that has sprung up in Brook Street has a quiet grandeur that is in keeping with its old nickname.
The Claridge's of the past was a comfortable hotel with convenient suites, but its outside was as philistine as any doctor's house in the street. Now the towering red-brick structure, with its granite columns, looks like a veritable palace. The proprietor in old days was very much in evidence. He felt the responsibility of having Royalty under his roof, and was always waiting in the hall to make his bow. So keenly did he appreciate his proud position that once, when anenterprising artist took a room at Claridge's, so as to be able to observe a Royal personage who was going to be gently caricatured in a weekly paper, he being made aware that the crime oflèse-majestéwas being committed, politely but firmly insisted on the artist taking his portmanteau and paint-brushes elsewhere. Royalty might be caricatured, but it should never be said that the crime was committed at Claridge's. Nowadays Claridge's is in the hands of a company, and though, no doubt, M. Mengay, the manager, is present to make his bow when Royalty arrives, he would not dream of expelling an inquisitive artist; indeed, all the caricaturists in Europe would be welcome if they had the wherewithal to pay their bills, for Royalty in the new Claridge's is given a separate house, and so is effectually shielded from prying eyes.
The right touch of grandeur is given in theporte-cochère, where the roadway is paved with indiarubber, so that even the horses shall go softly, and where the pavement is of marble. It takes a great number of men—six, I think—to open the doors of Claridge's, and to show the visitor into the hall; and as a great number of servants to do very little is one of the characteristics of Royal residences, the home of kings in this way asserts itself at its gates.
I went in the afternoon to order dinner and secure a table. The six men let me in, and two higher officials were at my service to direct me to the restaurant; but I did not need any guidance, for when the new Claridge's was opened I had wandered at will through all the rooms,had admired the great stone fireplace in the smoking-room, had passed through the many suites on the higher floors; Louis Quinze suites, Louis Seize suites, Empire suites, Sheraton and Adams suites, and had peeped into the Royal suite with its blue and green and crimson rooms, and mahogany furniture.
In the restaurant I found an old acquaintance in the shape of M. Deminger, themaître d'hôtel. All the small side-tables for the evening were taken, he said; but a table for four should be converted into a table for two in order that I might be accommodated. The dinner I left to M. Nignon, thechef de cuisine, whose handiwork I knew well when he was at Paillard's, and M. Nobile, the manager, asking only that the dinner should be short, and saying that though I wanted a good dinner I did not, as I am not a crowned head or a very wealthy man, want an inordinately expensive one.
At eight punctually the Princess arrived, and was received with ceremony by the six at the doors. She was wearing her sable cloak, which always seems to me to be longer and handsomer than the furs worn by other women, and a dress of delicate black lace over some soft white material. The pearls and diamonds that are one of the heirlooms of her husband's family, were round her throat, and there was a sparkle of diamonds amidst the lace of her dress.
The restaurant at Claridge's is a dignified room. The windows are draped with deep red curtains and purple portières; the carpet carries on the scheme of quiet reds, and the chairs havemorocco backs of vermilion, with the arms of the hotel stamped on them in gold. The white plaster ceiling is supported by great arches, the bases of which and the walls of which are panelled with darkish oak, into which patterns in olive wood are set. The quiet-footed waiters in evening clothes, with the arms of the hotel as a badge on the lapels of their coats, are in keeping with the room. It is a restaurant that is essentially quiet, a restaurant where hurry on the part of the diners would be out of place, a restaurant where good digestion should be inseparable from appetite. The music of the band under Meyer van Praag lends itself to the benevolent atmosphere of the place. It is soft enough and far away enough not to interfere with conversation. One of the lessons that most restaurant managers refuse to learn is that an aggressive band spoils a good dinner.
This was the menu that M. Rouget, the secondmaître d'hôtel, laid down by my plate as we took our seats:—
Hors-d'œuvre variés.Crème Princesse.Sole d'Aumale.Poulet de grain à la Carifnon.Délice de jambon frappé au champagne.Bécassine flambée Empire.Salade d'endive.Asperges Anglaises à la d'Yvette.Bombe Claridge.Petits fours.
While I was reading this through with appreciation the Princess was looking roundthe room and at the people dining. The wide spaces left between the tables met with her thorough approval, for the fact that one's neighbours hear every word that one says at many of the London restaurants is not an incentive to conversation. A lady in white at the next table to ours also met with approval, and the Princess, serenely secure in the consciousness of being perfectly dressed, could afford to praise another woman's gown. Four men dining together at the tables drew from the Princess what sounded to me like a long extract from "Debrett," and I added an item of information as to the owner of a handsome face that was to be seen at one time on the stage, and which marriage withdrew from the gaze of the public.
While we trifled with thehors-d'œuvrethe manager came to our table, and in the course of conversation told us that the Portuguese Ambassador had entertained H.R.H. the Prince of Wales in one of the private dining-rooms the evening before. I felt inclined to say that I, too, entertained the great ones of the earth at Claridge's, but I reflected that humility was becoming in me, even though a Princess had been kind enough to dine with me.
The thick soup was good; but in no way remarkable. I do not care for thick soups, and the Princess only took a few spoonfuls from her plate. The sole, with its oysters and truffles, was very well cooked, and so was the chicken, with its savoury stuffing of macaroni and truffles. Thedélice de jambonwas a triumph, light and dainty, with a delicate blending of flavours, adish which marked the man who made it as an artist in his calling. Thebécassinewas a toothsome mouthful, the asparagus was good, and thebombe Claridgewas as admirable in its way as thedélicehad been. An excellent dinner, as a whole, with two dishes that were supreme works of culinary art. We drank the wine of the good widow Clicquot.
I paid my bill. Two couverts, 2s.; hors-d'œuvre, 2s.; crème Princesse, 4s.; sole, 4s. 6d.; poulet de grain, 12s.; mousse jambon, 4s. 6d.; bécassine, 10s.; salade, 1s. 6d.; asperges, 8s.; bombe, 3s.; café, 2s.; liqueurs, 3s. 6d.; wines, 15s.; total, £3: 12s.
Dinner over, we sat in the comfortable reading-room, where the chairs of blue silk striped velvet match the cerulean tint of the walls, until the brougham was announced, and the Princess was duly ushered out by the faithful six.
24th December.
M. Nignon, the chef of Claridge's, was in days past the chef at Paillard's in Paris, the best-known perhaps of all the restaurants there. He has brought with him to Claridge's many specialities in cooking. This is a list of the dishes which he has given me as specialities of the Claridge's cuisine.
Bortsch à la Russe—Consommé Madrileine—Consommé à la Parme—Consommé Czarmina—Consommé veloutine à l'Impérial—Crème Comtesse—Crème Waleska—Crème de chapon Virien—Crème ambassadrice.
Truite saumonnée à la d'Artois—Truite saumonnée à la Villard—Turbotin soufflé à la Maréchale—Turbotin au vin du Rhin à l'Allemande—Sole à la d'Aubigny—Sole au madère à laValois—Suprême de sole à la Valiéra—Suprême de sole en épigramme à la Mondaine—Suprême de sole à la d'Orléans—D'Artois de sole à la Polignac—Huîtres à la Kotchoubey.
Noisettes de filet de bœuf à la Ropan—Noisettes de filet de bœuf à la Colbert—Tournedos à la Valencia—Tournedos à la Chancellière—Tournedos à la Cambacères—Tournedos à la Valence—Médaillon de pré-salé Chanford—Médaillon de pré-salé à la Cléo de Mérode—Noisettes d'agneau Ainélie—Noisettes d'agneau Beaumanoir—Côte de bœuf flambée Empire—Filet de bœuf flambé à la Brechlair—Cœur de filet de bœuf Cancléan—Poularde Rozollie—Poularde soufflé à la Royale—Poularde à la bière à la Russe—Poularde St-Cloud—Poulet reine au fumet à la Carignon—Poulet reine à la Florentine.
Chaudes et Froides.—Mousseline de jambon chaude au champagne—Mousse de poularde au porto doré—Mousseline d'épinards à la Maintenon—Mousse de langue chaude à l'Ecarlatée—Mousse de foie gras chaude à la Parisienne.
Froides.—Jeannette de poularde—Délices de pois—Ballotine de volaille sur socle.
Ris de veau à la Norvégienne—Aspic de volaille à la Ducale—Caneton de Rouen à la Claridge—Caneton de Rouen en surprise—Ramequin au nid—Poularde cendrillon—Terrine de foie gras au porto à la Savaraff—Croustade de blanc de volaille Châtelaine.
Darne de saumon à la Pickla—Truite saumonnée à la Suédoise—Truite saumonnée Ratelière—Langouste à la Césarine—Homarde à la Parisienne—Escalopes de turbot Bagration—Turban de suprême de sole Victoria—Turbotin à la Moscovite—Queues d'écrevisses en chartreuse—Mousse de homard Le Run—Salade de poisson à la Russe.
Ponchardrin à la Bourdalouse—Soufflé Palfit—Soufflé Vizir—Soufflé Metternich—Mignon soufflé à l'Orange.
Bombe Claridge—Bombe Suzette—Bombe Prince de Galles—Biscuit Tortone—Cremolata—Pain d'Espagne Comtesse Marie—Pièces Vénitiennes—Tutti frutti—Trauch Canelli—Orange crémeuse—Fraises Archiduchesse.
He is a rising young artist with an idea, an idea which is, or was, to make him and me rich beyond dreams of avarice; all that is wanted now being a publisher who will see matters in the same light that the rising young artist does, and who will spend a hundred thousand pounds to back his belief.
Gentlemen, do not all speak at once.
The rising young artist wanted to talk to me quietly for an hour, to unfold his brilliant idea, and it seemed to me that it would be an economy of time to eat dinner and learn how a fortune can be made at one and the same time.
"Let us go to some very quiet place, then," said the rising artist, "for if any one were to overhear he might forestall us, and then——" The rising artist shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands; and I saw the possibilities of a steam yacht, and a shooting-box in Scotland, and a couple of horses in training at Newmarket all vanishing into air.
Such a calamity as being forestalled shouldnot occur if I could help it, I said: and appointed a meeting at a club whence we would walk to a dining-place; and the particular dining-place I had in my mind's eye was the Hôtel de Paris, in Leicester Place, which is quiet, has no disturbing element in the form of a band, and is almost entirely patronised by French people, who probably would not have understood the rising artist's idea, even if they had overheard it.
The Hôtel de Paris does not thrust itself upon the public gaze. You pass between the two great restaurants that are springing into existence in Leicester Square. To the right is the modest façade of the French Embassy chapel. To the left a lamp, with "Hôtel de Paris" on it, marks the hotel, and a large framed bill of fare shows that here also is the restaurant. Passing through a little hall, where a page and hall-porter bow with exceeding politeness, you turn to the right and find a glass door, with the word "Restaurant" on it, facing you.
The rising artist was punctual to his appointment, and by a quarter to eight we were settled down at a table for two in the restaurant, a T-shaped room, with two arches where the upright of the T joins the cross-line; and M. Conrarie, the manager, his moustaches turned upwards and his frock-coat of the neatest, was standing by, while a waiter, in plain evening clothes, submitted to us the menu of thetable-d'hôtedinner for the day. This was it:—
Printanier Royal. Crème de céleri.Cabillaud. Sauce Hollandaise. Blanchille.Poulet au riz. Tête de veau en tortue.Filet de bœuf. Tomates farcies.Epinards à la crème.Panier Chantilly.Dessert.
We made our selection of dishes, and I ordered a bottle of 1889 Perrier-Jouët; for the building up of a fortune could not be talked over with the accompaniment of any meaner wine than champagne.
The rising artist looked carefully round the rooms. It is a pretty restaurant, with a paper of gold sprays of foliage on a blue background, with many mirrors, with the green of palm-leaves by the two arches, with painted-glass windows, with electric lights dependent from the papered ceiling and in red and yellow shaded lamps on the tables. The tables are dotted about the room at convenient distances, and it was at the diners sitting at these tables that the rising artist was looking curiously to assure himself that what he was going to say would not be overheard. The diners, with the exception of ourselves, were all foreigners. An old Frenchman, with a white moustache and black silk cravat tied in a great bow, was giving dinner to a smooth-faced youth who probably was his son. Next to them was a gentleman with a peaked beard who looked like a musician; then three young men with down on their chins talking eagerly and gesticulating vehemently. A gentleman with a very long beard who talked English with a foreign accent to the waiter, and who possibly was a Russian, was at the table next tous, and through the arches we could see a hat with black feathers and a dainty little profile of a face with a tip-tilted nose, as well as more Frenchmen, fat and thin, bearded and clean-shaven.
The rising artist was apparently satisfied with his scrutiny; and, as I dallied with a sardine and he with some otherhors-d'œuvre, he opened the proceedings by asking me what I intended to do with my half of the fortune we were going to make. Being a practical and prudent man, I said that that depended upon the number of tens of thousands a year that we should realise, but that I had already decided on buying a large steam yacht and hiring a moor in Scotland and having a few horses in training.
The soup then made its appearance, and did not meet with our approval, for the chef had remedied a lack of strength by a liberal sprinkling from the sauce-bottle. It was not in keeping with the excellently-cooked dishes that followed.
The rising artist was going to spend his thousands in a different manner. He thought of building such a house and studio as London had never seen before. His collection of modern pictures was going to be small but very good, while a fewchefs-d'œuvreof the old masters—Velasquez, Van Dyck, and Rembrandt for choice—would satisfy him. He did not care about racing or shooting, but his carriage horses would be the best obtainable, and he thought of building a tennis-court when he bought a little house in the country.
The whitebait was excellently cooked, andled us into conversation as to the cooks we should presently require. A Frenchman who had at some time served under the great Cubat and understood Russian dishes was my idea of what would be my requirements, while the rising artist simply thought of going to Maître Escoffier and asking him for the best cook he had under him at the time.
The rising artist said that thepoulet au rizwas well cooked, and mytête de veauwas succulent and beautifully hot. I began to think that it was about time that my young friend propounded his idea; but he lingered lovingly over the details of his studio and tennis-court, and seemed more inclined to tell me how to spend the money than how to make it.
Thefilet de bœufwas cooked exactly to a Frenchman's taste, a trifle too much for an Englishman's; the tomatoes and spinach were all that could be wished.
"Now," I said, "let's hear all about your wonderful idea."
The rising artist looked round again to be sure that nobody, not even a waiter, was within hearing, and then whispered across the table the broad lines of the plan he had conceived for making our joint fortune. When he had finished he leaned back in his chair with the triumphant air of a man who has laid the ace, king, queen, and knave of trumps on the table. I was thinking that the champagne was far too good for the idea.
The cream in its bread casing was put before us and I ordered coffee and liqueurs. "Where doyou expect to find a publisher who'll risk tens or hundreds of thousands to do this?" I asked.
"Oh,anypublisher withanypluck will jump at it," said the rising artist airily. "It will be part of your share of the work to find our man."
I paid the bill: two dinners, 6s.; two cafés spéciaux, 1s.; champagne, 14s.; two fine champagnes, 1s. 6d.; total, £1: 2: 6; shook hands with the rising artist, and told him I was going out to try and find that publisher. If any one knows of a publisher who would be likely to risk, say, £100,000 in carrying out an artistic idea, I should be glad of his name and address.
28th January.
"Oh, yes," said my maiden aunt. "I read of your going out to dinners and taking actresses and grass-widows and other pretty ladies to dine. I wonder you are not tired of so much frivolity."
I answered meekly that the worthlessness of my life was often felt seriously by me, and that I took actresses and grass-widows out to dinner because they were kind enough to say that they enjoyed such little outings; but that I would really prefer much more serious company.
My aunt drew down the corners of her mouth and looked at me through her spectacles with supreme disapproval.
"If I could only," I went on, revelling in my wickedness, "secure a missionary lady, or a captain in the Salvation Army, or a shining light of the Pioneer Club, or even one of my maiden aunts, as a dining companion, do you think for a moment that I would dally with the butterflies of the pasture or the stage?"
My maiden aunt was so angry that she sniffed. "As if you would think of asking us!" she saidwith a snap. "I have noticed you have been facetious at the expense of an imaginary invalid aunt; but you would be very sorry to ask me out really."
"But I do ask you. It would be one of the greatest honours of my life to entertain you at dinner."
My aunt sat silent for a moment or two, her lips so tightly shut that they were almost white. Then there came a tiny twinkle in her eyes. "Very well," she said, "when you name an evening I'll come—just to punish you."
I felt afterwards that I had done a bold thing, and while I was about it I rather regretted that I had not asked my grave and spectacled relative to sup at a Bohemian restaurant—the contrast would have been as delicious as asoufflé en surprise; but dinner it had to be, and as the good lady told all the rest of the family that I had asked her to dinner, but was meanly trying to get out of the offer, I wrote a formal invitation requesting the pleasure of her company at the Walsingham House at 8p.m., and to this I received a formal answer of acceptance.
The Walsingham House restaurant is in the house which the Isthmian Club occupied so long, and it forms part of the block of chambers and hotels that stretches from the Green Park to Arlington Street. Its name in great gilt letters stands out boldly on the red-brick face; and the twin entrances, with glass shelters, one to the dwelling-house, the other to the restaurant, have become well-known features of Piccadilly. A flight of steps leads up from the door to therestaurant, and at the top of these stairs there is a comfortable ante-room; but I preferred to wait by the fireplace in the hall, so as to be on the spot when my aunt arrived.
She came in a four-wheeler, the driver of which is a special retainer of hers. He is sober and he goes to church, and as the possessor of these two cardinal virtues, he is retained to drive my aunt on all special occasions. I saw the glint of her spectacles through the cab window, and went out to welcome her.
"Well, I've come, you see," she said with a certain amount of grimness; and when I said that that was the proudest moment of my life, she bridled and tossed her head to show how much faith she put in speeches of that kind. I told the faithful cabman that he had better be in evidence at half-past nine, and then I waited on the landing while my aunt went up to the region of the second floor to leave her cloak.
When she reappeared, I found that she was in her raiment of ceremony, and felt duly honoured. She was wearing her best black silk dress, a dress of such richness of silk that—so the family tradition goes—it will stand up of itself, and her most highly ornamented lace cap. She had her thick gold chain on, her brooch of rose diamonds, and her long enamel earrings. I ushered her in to the table for two, which I had reserved, and she settled down with a rustle, and then looked round somewhat defiantly.
"Are you well known here?" she asked, and I said that I occasionally lunched or dined in the restaurant. "I only hope that they won't takeme for one of your actress friends—that's all," she said, and, do what I could, I could not prevent the corners of my mouth from twitching. I was told severely that it was no laughing matter; and, putting her fan down by her plate, my aunt took up the menu and read it through:—
Hors-d'œuvre.Croûte au pot. Mock turtle.Filets de sole Dutru.Tournedos Walsingham.Pommes soufflées.Suprême de volaille Jeannette.Canard sauvage.Salade.Artichauts Hollandaises.Glaces Napolitaines.Patisserie.
My respected relative knows what constitutes a good dinner as well as anybody does; and though she would have dearly loved to be able to pick a hole in the menu, she put it down with a satisfied expression, and, indeed, except for thecroûte au pot, which is to me what King Charles's head was to poor Mr. Dick, it was a very well-considered dinner.
I ate the mock turtle, very good soup, but still a foreigner's idea of what is a thoroughly Britannic dish, and while I did so my aunt, who had refused soup, sat and watched me. "You have been getting terribly stout of late years," she said, as I put down my spoon, "and for a man with a neck like yours that is dangerous. There is apoplexy in the family; one of yourpoor dear great-uncles died in an apoplectic fit. He always ate and drank too much, poor fellow."
Thefilets de sole, with their slight flavouring of cheese and accompanying shrimps andmoules, were excellent. My aunt supped her champagne, and the corners of her mouth relaxed. But she still had some ammunition to fire away. "You were not at church last Sunday," she said with severity; but that was a matter I declined to discuss while eating dinner, and, to change the subject, I drew her attention to the beauties of the room, the deep frieze admirably painted with subjects of the chase, showing how our skin-clad ancestors collected their venison and game birds, the cunningly concealed lights, the panelling of inlaid woods, the white pillars and cornices just touched with gold, the comfortable brown-red carpet and chairs to match it, the curtains of deep crimson velvet, the ceiling with its little cupids floating on roseate clouds; and the old lady nodded her head in approval. M. Renato, the spick-and-span little manager; the waiters with white waistcoats, gold buttons to their coats, and a thin piping of gold on their collars; the band playing subdued music, the brass candelabra on the table with red shades, the fine napery and glass, were all noted by her. I told my aunt that the coat-of-arms on the china, supported by two griffins scratching their backs with their noses, were the arms of the De Greys, and with a "Hoity-toity!" I was requested not to give her lectures in heraldry.
Thetournedos Walsingham, with truffles,fonds d'artichautsand a pink sauce so cunninglymixed that one could not tell what the ingredients were, showed the artistic hand of M. Dutru; and the cold entrée, thesuprême de volailleserved on a rock of glass, was excellent. My aunt by now was in an inquiring mood, and wanted to know if there were any of my actress friends among the many diners—for by half-past eight nearly every table was occupied. I was sorry that I could not show her any lights of the stage, but I could tell her of the Irish lord who was giving a family dinner-party, of the old general diningtête-à-têtewith his son, and of the three foreign attachés who were inventing fables as to the Dreyfus case for each other's benefit.
The duck, the artichokes, and the ice were all that they should be, and my aunt was thoroughly pleased, for she told me, smilingly, that she had always considered me the scapegrace of the family.
I paid my bill. Two dinners, 15s.; two cafés doubles, 1s. 6d.; champagne, 15s.; liqueurs, 2s.; total, £1: 13: 6.
The faithful cabman was waiting outside, and as my aunt got into the cab she tapped me on the arm with her fan, and said that she had enjoyed herself.
Perhaps, after all, the old lady will remember me in her will.
21st January.
I asked Mons. Gelardi, the manager of the Walsingham House, if he would be so kind as to give me therecettefor thetournedos Walsingham, and M. Dutru very kindly wrote it out for me.
Faire sauter les tournedos à feu vif: dresser sur fonds d'artichauts et saucer d'une sauce madère avec lames de truffes; envoyer à part une saucière de Béarnaise à la tomate et pommes.
signature
Cook your tournedos over a quick fire, place them onfonds d'artichautsand add Madeira sauce and sliced truffles. Serve separately Béarnaise sauceà la tomateand potatoes.
M. Gelardi also told me of a dinner for fifty people that was to be served at the Walsingham the next night, and showed me the menu.
Hors-d'œuvre.Caviar. Saumon fumé.Tortue claire. Velouté printanier Royal.Truite saumonée glacée au champagne.Sole à la Meunière.Filets de poulet aux truffes. Petits pois à l'anglaise.Selle d'agneau de Galles. Artichauts aux frais herbes.Suprême de cailles Valsingham.Timbale d'écrevisses Américaine.Sorbet au Clicquot Rosé.Caneton de Rouen Rouennaise.Salade Rachel.Asperges d'Argenteuil hollandaise.Cerise Jubilé. Bombe Alaska.Friandises.Soufflé au Paprica. Dessert.
I felt like an extract from a Christmas story after the manner of Charles Dickens. I was the unfortunate, desponding individual driven at Christmas time to eat a solitary dinner in a deserted club, and as I sat down to the little table, with three waiters regarding me with placid curiosity, I felt a savage discontent that no spirit of a dead sweetheart of days gone by, no child-angel, would appear to me as they always do to the morose heroes of Christmas stories.
I had been reduced to solitude, moroseness, and a club dinner by the possession of two tickets for Barnum and Bailey's great show at Olympia. It was the day after Boxing Day, and I felt sure in the afternoon that I should find a companion eager to see the performance and previously to dine quietly at some little restaurant where dress-clothes would not been règle. Somehow or other I found it very difficult to secure my man. It was the dream of the life of every man I met to go to Olympia; but not to go there on Tuesday night. If I could change the tickets for othersfor Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday night I could have had a choice of fifty companions, but on Tuesday all the married men said they had to dine at home with their wives; all the unmarried ones had some other engagement. I began to feel that I was shunned by mankind, and instead of thinking that I was conferring a great favour by an offer of the spare ticket, I adopted an almost imploring tone, begging for companionship.
I wandered from club to club, taking a gloomy pleasure in the sloppy streets and the vestiges of the gale of the night before. They fitted well with my growing melancholy. It was too late to send the tickets back and to go home and dine. I had to dree my weird, and, like the Wandering Jew, I moved on from place to place, seeking a companion and finding none.
At the last club I went to—a little Bohemian club—I found my man. He was playing dominoes. When I interrupted the game to ask him if he would dine with me and come to Olympia, instead of making an excuse, as the others had done, he said that nothing in the world would please him better. He had to go home for a minute or to, but would be back, he said, at the club at a quarter to seven. We would stroll over to some bright, cheap restaurant and have a mouthful of food, and then take cab and see the horses and gymnasts, freaks and miniature warships. I felt I had at all events one friend in the world.
A quarter to seven came and the club was deserted by everybody except a member asleepin an armchair and myself. I sat and watched the clock, and three waiters stood by the little tables at the end of the room and looked at me and talked in whispers to each other. The minute-hand drew gradually up to the hour, and as it did so I sank down into the depths of despondency. My friend had deserted me, basely deserted me, or else he was killed, run over perhaps, or struck by a falling chimney. The minute-hand went on to five minutes past, the member in the armchair snored gently and regularly, the waiters seemed to look at me pityingly. Pity from a waiter I could not endure. I got up and went over to one of the little tables and sat down. The waiters looked placidly pleased. I was relieving the monotony of their lives. I said I would take the club dinner and a whisky-and-soda, and when two of the waiters faded away, the other remained on guard. I put my elbows on the table, and my head in my hands, and felt that I was indeed the morose hero of pathetic Christmas magazine literature.
My soup was brought, and a whisky-and-soda deposited tenderly by the side of the plate, when the door was flung open, and in came my missing friend clothed in evening dress and radiant. There was an engagement he had forgotten: he was taking a lady to dine at Challis's—new little place of Baker's—a thousand apologies—I must cancel club dinner and come over—couldn't keep the lady waiting—see me again in two minutes. And he was out of the room again like a well-dressed whirlwind.
I did cancel the rest of my club dinner, to thesuppressed grief of the three waiters, who saw thus the only relief to their boredom vanish. I put on hat and coat and walked through the darkness and slush to Rupert Street, where two great ornamental lamps made a brave splash of light in the gloom, and where a tablet of opal glass with ruby lettering on it, dependent from a highly-ornamental glass and metal door-shelter, set forth that here was the restaurant of Challis's Hotel.
To go from the darkness of the street by the direct door into the restaurant is like the transition in the pantomime from the Realms of the Demon Gloom to the Glittering Palace of the Good Fairy; and, in my splashed boots and morning attire, I felt like the solitary scene-shifter who is generally "discovered" in the midst of the glittering scene when the front cloth rises.
Challis's Restaurant consists of two rooms, opening one into the other, one decorated after the manner of the Louis XIV. period, and the other after the manner of the Louis XV. period. Both are as pretty as a bride-cake or a silk Watteau fan. White and gold and soft colour are everywhere. The ceilings are painted with clouds and little roseate deities, and echoes of Fragonard, and the other courtly painters of dainty sylvan dreams are in the panels of the wall. The place blazes with electric light, a starry constellation in the ceiling, lights shaded with blue and pink and old-gold shades in brackets on the wall, and on the table candle-lamps crowned with deep red shades. A palm toppinga little chiffonnier of white wood, a fireplace with pillars of white-and-gold, and little bronzes on the mantelpiece; chairs of dark wood, in keeping with the period; a carpet of deep red, and in one corner a little counter of white wood, with a pretty little lady behind it. Such was as much as I can remember of the setting of a scene in which I should not have been the least surprised to have seen littleabbésandmarquisesfeasting on syllabub and various dainties, and dancing pavanes and minuets and gavottes between the courses.
A waiter in white waistcoat and with gold buttons to his coat, was waiting to take my coat and hat, and my friend was beckoning me to a table where he was sitting with a pretty lady in evening dress.
I was introduced, but did not catch the pretty lady's name. She seemed to look upon it as being the most natural thing in the world that I should have been brought away half-way through one dinner to eat another, and so did my friend; and as it all seemed to be part of a Christmas story, it all became natural to me. If Santa Claus and St. George and the Dragon had come in and taken seats at one of the neighbouring tables I do not think that on that particular night I should have thought the matter called for any particular remark. Every man but myself was in dress clothes, and I felt very like the Ugly Duckling; but the unknown pretty lady did not allow me to be ill at ease. She talked, and talked admirably, on subject after subject, gliding from pictures to theatres, frombooks to music, with perfect ease and knowledge. My friend sat in silent contentment, and I in a dazed state of wonder as to who this clever pretty lady might be, and how it was my friend could have forgotten his appointment with her, and I felt very thankful to her for being at the trouble to talk to a mud-splashed outcast like myself. This was the menu—
Hors-d'œuvre variés.Consommé aux Profiterolles. Crème Jackson.Blanchailles.Civet de lièvre à la Française.Aloyau à la moderne.Poulet rôti au cresson. Salade.Choux à la crème.Glace aux apricots.Petits fours.Dessert.
The whitebait, which was the first dish I tasted, was good. The beef and the chicken were both as good as the market affords. We drank a light hock which was eminently drinkable, and when M. Coccioletti, in explanation, as he presented the bill, said to my friend, "Three dinners at 3s. 6d.," it struck me that I had eaten a very good dinner for that price.
"Good-bye, old fellow—explain next time we meet—hope you'll have a good time at Olympia," was what my friend said as he helped the fair unknown into a brougham, and got in after her. She smiled at me. I was left on the doorstep with the awful responsibility of those two tickets for Barnum and Bailey's show.
31st December.
The handwriting on the letter was familiar. The letter bore a U.S.A. stamp. I wondered why Miss Dainty, of all the principal London theatres, whom I had seen off one day last summer from St. Pancras, whence she started for the land of Dollars, and from whom I had not heard since, should have suddenly found reason to correspond with me.
Miss Dainty informed me that she was having a high old time in the States, that she was drawing a princely salary, that Jack, the fighting fox-terrier, was very well and as pugnacious as ever, and that she had not yet made up her mind which of the many wealthy men who had laid their money-bags at her feet she was going to marry. The real reason of the letter lay in the last sentence, in which she told me that a real nice girl who had been her room-mate on tour, was coming to England, to join a theatrical company, by the steamer that would carry her letter, and would I, she wrote, be of any service to the fair stranger I could, for her sake.
I wrote to the theatre introducing myself, at Miss Dainty's desire, asking if I could be of any service, and suggesting to Miss Belle that if she would be kind enough to let me talk to her for half an hour, I should like to do so on Sunday across a dinner-table, and proposing Epitaux's in the Haymarket as being quiet and bright.
Miss Belle, in a little letter ending, "Yours cordially," wrote that she would be pleased to dine, and added that Miss Dainty had often spoken of me.
In one matter Epitaux's is deficient—there is no entrance lounge or waiting-room. A very smart little buffet, with ornamental glass windows, faces the street, and alongside this a narrow entrance passage, gorgeous in white and gold, leads to a short flight of steps and the glass doors which shield the restaurant. I had asked Miss Belle to dine at eight, and I waited at the street entrance, hoping that instinct would point her out to me when she arrived.
Two men drove up in a hansom. A brougham disgorged a married couple. Then a hansom came with a clatter down the Haymarket, pulled up, and a lady, good-looking and very becomingly attired, opened the doors and prepared to get out. The commissionaire put the guard over the wheel, and Miss Belle, for there could be no doubt that it was she, jumped down before I had time to introduce myself and offer a hand.
Miss Belle said a pretty word or two as to the invitation to dinner, and hoped she was not late; and as we went up the entrance passage she told me that she considered Miss Dainty thesweetest girl upon earth, and that she would have recognised me from the picture that Miss Dainty had shown her.
Miss Belle allowed me to help her off with her coat, while I explained that I had chosen Epitaux's for our dining-place because it is comparatively small, and that I was not likely to miss her arrival, as might have happened at Princes' or the Savoy. The pretty lady, looking round the daintybonbonnièreof a restaurant—with its walls of the lightest cream colour, its pilasters and cornices picked out with gold, its panels of deep blue-green stamped velvet, its musicians' gallery filled with palms, under which in a glass-enclosed room a young lady in black serves out the wines and liqueurs, its blaze of electric lights on the walls and its shaded lights on the tables—approved thoroughly of my choice. She had been at parties at Princes' and the Savoy, the Cecil and Romano's, since she arrived a fortnight ago; but she thought Epitaux's, which was new to her, very snug and nice.
I hoped that Miss Belle had had a good passage, but she had not; and I trusted that to make up for bad weather she had had pleasant fellow-passengers; but the passengers seemed to have been as indifferent as the weather.
Messrs. Costa and Rizzi, the two proprietors—one tall, with a moustache that a cavalryman might envy; the other short, with a grizzled beard—had been hovering by the table, and the head waiter, with thecarte de jourin one hand, and the menu of thetable-d'hôtedinner in the other, was waiting for orders.
I chose thetable-d'hôtedinner—
Hors-d'œuvre variés.Croûte au pot. Crème Dubarry.Filets de sole Portugaise. Whitebait.Côtelettes d'agneau aux pointes d'asperges.Canard sauvage. Salade.Céleri à la moëlle.Biscuit glacé au chocolat.Canapé de laitances à la Diable.Dessert.
—and ordered a bottle of G. H. Mumm, 1889. Miss Belle, having settled down into conversational mood, told me that she had rooms in a house in Bloomsbury in which some of the other ladies of the company lived. "We girls go about together. We go everywhere, and nobody ever says anything to us. Yes, sir. That is one thing I will say about Englishmen, as a rule they are not fresh." She was quite surprised that English girls did not do the same. In the security of this sisterhood there was nowhere she and the other girls could not go. The night before, five of them had taken a private room at the Trocadéro, and had supped by themselves with great content, rejoicing in the absence of man. The London policemen were the institutions that "in your dirty old town" met with thorough approval from Miss Belle. She warranted them polite and ready to answer questions. "If you ask anything of a New York policeman you get a hard look back and that's all."
Thecroûte au potwas strong, but too salt.I am, perhaps, prejudiced against the eternalcroûte au potandpetite marmite. Miss Belle, who took the thick soup, approved of it highly. Thefilets de sole Portugaisewere admirable.
We had a table at the far end of the room from the kitchen, which accounted for the whitebait, excellently cooked as it was, not being as hot as whitebait should be.
I felt that I had cross-examined Miss Belle as much as politeness allowed, so I told her something of the history of Epitaux's; how the site was originally that of Foote's Theatre in the Haymarket—Foote the witty buffoon, who was a big enough man in his day to pose as a rival to Garrick—and how at a later period it became the Café de l'Europe. Here, in the ante-early-closing days, after the midnight farce at the Haymarket Theatre next door, the stern critics of the pit would come to eat their chop, or Welsh-rabbit, or tripe and onions, and talk learnedly of plays and players till two in the morning. And I told Miss Belle of the old Epitaux's in the Opera colonnade, the name of which has been transferred to the new establishment in the Haymarket; how in the early Victorian days it was one of the very few restaurants where good French cookery could be found, and how the Iron Duke, and other famous men used to give little dinner-parties there.
Then Miss Belle took up the running, and told me of the restaurants of modern New York, of the up-town Delmonico's, which has been built since I crossed the herring-pond, and ofSherry's, Martin's, Burns's, and Shandley's, the three latter Bohemian, but not the less comfortable for that.
The cutlets were excellent, and the asparagus the best I have tasted this winter, while the duck was cooked to an absolute nicety. Thebiscuit glacé au chocolatwas as delightful and evanescent as a good dream. Altogether it was a very good dinner, though the cookdidhave a little accident with the salt-cellar in preparing thecroûte au pot.
Miss Belle told me of her tour in the same company with Miss Dainty, of adventures at "one-night stands," of cowboys who brought their bronchos for the ladies of the company to ride, and other tales that amused me much while we drank our coffee and liqueurs. "Guess I've talked a streak," she said, when in a pause I asked for my bill.
Two dinners, 15s.; two cafés, 1s.; champagne, 14s.; liqueurs, 2s.; total £1: 12s., was what I paid.
4th January.
ALL DOCTORSAGREE that
BARON LIEBIG, in a letter which excited much attention at the time, announced boldly the reason of his belief in the use of Hungarian Wines.
Recommended, alike for the Anæmic and the Robust, by the highest Medical Authorities for over 35 years.
See that every cork bears the brand"MAX GREGER,"without it the Wine is not genuine.In Bottles and Screw-Stoppered Flagons.From 15s. to 60s. per doz.OF ALL WINE MERCHANTS.
Sole Proprietors: SEPTIMUS PARSONAGE & Co., Ltd.,45, St. Thomas Street, LONDON, S.E.
Telegraphic Address—"SCOTT'S, LONDON."Telephone No. 2513 Gerrard.
Rebuilt 1893.
Cuisine of the Highest Quality.
18, 19, & 20 Coventry St.AND1 & 2 Gt. Windmill St.Top of the Haymarket.
Suppers after the Theatres a Speciality.
Largest and Most Magnificent Hotel in Europe.
BEDROOMS FROM 6/- PER DAY INCLUDINGLIGHT AND ATTENDANCE.
Telegraphic Address—"CECELIA," LONDON.A. JUDAH,Manager.
Overlooking the Green Park, and occupying the finest position in London.