Part 2

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PROVERBS FOR BALL AND DINNER GIVERS

Ices and tea and coffee and small cakes are as good as a feast.

You may bring an amateur tenor up to a piano, but you cannot make him sing.

A lord in the room is worth two dukes in the bush.

In provincial society the lord-lieutenant is king.

Flirtation is the mother of invention.

All good dances lead to the conservatory.

Take care of the rounds, and the squares will look after themselves.

It is a wise waltzer who knows her own step.

A dinner in time saves nine.

When the confectioner comes in by the door the cook flies out by the window.

What is port to your wine merchant is death to your guests.

Keep your champagne dry.

Call a stable-boy by any other name, and he will resemble the rose under similar circumstances.

You can't make a head butler out of a local greengrocer.

When the soup is cold, the wit flies out.

If you have enough cheap and nasty dishes, some of them must be eaten.

The _menu_ makes the dinner.

Ask _Mr. Punch_ to a really good and well thought-out meal, and you will have an exceptionally lucky man for your guest.

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THE SIGH OF THE SEASON

Good-bye dinner, good-bye lunch, Good-bye turtle, good-bye punch, Good-bye jambon soaked in cham., Good-bye venison, cutlets lamb, Good-bye salmon, smelts, and sole, Good-bye Heidsieck's monopole, Good-bye hock, sauterne, and sherry, Good-bye all that makes me merry, Good-bye liqueurs, _petit verre_, Good-bye sauce _au Vin Madère_, Good-bye all these joys of life, Good-bye fork, and good-bye knife, Good-bye all I take when out, Good-bye _then_ this twinge of gout!

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DINNER PLATITUDES

Twice of soup is vulgar, but three times of soup implies that you must be more than double-plated with vulgarity. Such a thing was never known, not even at the Trinity Board, and turtle is not the slightest excuse for your pushing things to such a vulgar length. An alderman would really blush for you.

A soft answer turneth away wrath, and an invitation to take a glass of wine will frequently restore warmth between two friends where only coldness existed before.

No matter how plain your cook may be, so long as your dinner is well-dressed.

A few compliments go a great way. A little savoury _pâté_ is quite enough. Try too many, and you'll find they'll prove heavy.

When the ladies retire from the dinner-table, it is not usual for you (supposing you to be a gentleman) to retire with them. In this instance, the same law extends to the mistress as to the servants:--"No Followers Allowed."

A gratuity well bestowed frequently has a happy effect. The servant that is fee'd well takes care that his master does the same.

In the hands of an inferior _artiste_, whether an omelette turns out good or bad, is quite a matter of toss up. It is the same with a pancake.

Keep ill-natured people from your table, as you would sour fruit. They are sure to disagree with every one. Avoid crab-apples, lest the apple of discord should turn up amongst them.

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ODE TO A DINNER-GONG

"The tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell." So said, admiringly, the late Lord Byron, But he had never heard _your_ noisy knell, O blatant bellowing thing of brass or iron, Or surely he had metrically cursed Your nerve-distracting Corybantic clangour.

Would his fine indignation could have versed My utter hate, my agonising anger. Alas! is gusto then so great a sin, Is feeding man so terrible a sinner That such a worse than _Duncan_-raising din Must summon him to--dinner?

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DINNERS AND DINERS

(_With apologies to the P-ll M-ll G-z-tte_)

It had been my good fortune to give to Mademoiselle Faustine, a charming little actress, a tip for the Welter Plate last spring. What more natural than that I should ask her to give me a dinner as some slight return? She readily accepted, and asked me to name the day. Glancing at the sixth volume of my engagement book, I found my first vacant date was June 18, '97. This was fortunate, as it is hardly possible--except at Voisin's--to get a decent dinner unless you order it a year in advance.

"Where shall we dine?" asked Faustine.

"There is only one place where people _do_ dine," I answered, a little reproachfully. "The Bon Marché. I will order the dinner."

So the place and the date were fixed.

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As Faustine was a quarter of an hour late--I had not seen her since our arrangement--I waited in the alabaster portico of the Bon Marché, chatting amiably to the courteous commissionaire, an old comrade of mine in the Wimbledon days. Jules, the courteous _chef_, was _au désespoir_. Why had I not given him more notice? Madame was fifteen minutes late. If he had only known! In a year and fifteen minutes it is possible to cook a dinner. In a year--no. I tried to calm the worthy fellow--an old ally of mine in the Crimean war. In vain; he complained the sardines were spoiling. So I went into the dining-room, nodding courteously to eight princes of the blood, neither of whom appeared, for the moment, to recognise me.

As I seated myself, the entire staff, headed by a brass band, brought me my _sardines à l'huile_. These are a _specialité_ of the house, and are never--should never be, at least--eaten with the tin. The _potage à la potasse_ was quite excellent. I congratulated the courteous _chef_, pointing out to him the desirability of mixing, sometimes, a little anti-pyrine into the potassium--both drugs far too rarely used in modern cookery. Then came the question of wine. This I solved for the moment by ordering two Jeroboams of Stereoscopic Company et Fils; a _cuvée_ of '80, absolutely _reservée_ for my own use. As I had engaged the entire staff of waiters, a crown prince, who was entertaining one of our leading bicyclists, rose to leave, with his guest. I smiled and nodded to them as they passed, which appeared to hasten their departure.

The _moulin à vent_ was delicious, but the _dindon décousu_ I could not pass. No self-respecting _gourmet_ will pass everything at a dinner.

Gontran, the kindly _maître d'hôtel_, was almost in tears, but I consoled him by observing that the ostriches were cooked to a turn, and the _bombe glacée à l'anarchiste_ faultless.

But my hostess? Where was she? Where was Mademoiselle Faustine? I had quite forgotten her! I beckoned to Hagenbock, the press representative of the restaurant, who informed me she had been dead eight months! I, who read nothing but menus, had omitted to notice this in the papers. I was greatly pained. The shock unnerved me--I could eat no more. Besides, who was now to pay the bill?

I reproduce the bill.

Couverts, £5. Diners, £36 8_s._ Pain, 2_s._ Champagne, £47. Liqueurs, 15_s._ Addition, 3_s._

In all, £89 8_s._--(This is one of the few restaurants where a charge is made for the addition.)

"Make out the bill," said I, "in francs, and send it to the executors of Mademoiselle Faustine."

II.

Monsieur Victor de Train-de-Luxe is in many respects a delightful person. In other ways he is not. For instance, because he was, accidentally, the cause of my backing a winner at Ascot (simply by means of ordinary stable information), he had the bad taste to suggest that I should stand him a dinner.

I said, "Certainly, my dear Comte" (Comte being the courtesy title I invariably give to foreigners from whom I have the hope of borrowing money).

"Where shall it be?"

"There is only one place where one _can_ dine," I said.

"Of course--the Bon Marché," he replied.

"No," I answered. "No, _mon ami_. If you wish to eat a really characteristic English dinner, come to the Vegetarian Restaurant in Edgware Road. Come along. Come, _now_!"

"But it's only six o'clock. I am not hungry."

"All the better," I replied. And I also pointed out to him that the best way to see London is outside an omnibus. So we started.

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Arrived at the restaurant, I was enthusiastically received by the courteous cashier, who presented me with a previous bill, which, I noticed, had not been receipted. I said I thought it rather rude to present a gentleman with a bill which they hadn't taken the trouble to receipt.

We sat down.

"I'm glad," I said to Victor, "that I didn't know this dinner was coming off to-day. If I had had notice, I might have ordered it beforehand; and a dinner, to be perfection, should be eaten, if possible, on the day it is cooked. At least, that's what I always think. I may be wrong."

Monsieur de Train-de-Luxe smiled, said I was a _farceur_, and I ordered our dinner.

First, some turnip turtle soup, then, ortolans of spinach and mashed potatoes, followed by a canvas-backed duck made of Indian corn, and last, not least, plum-pudding. As all will agree, this makes a very delicious and seasonable repast. Long dinners have quite gone out of fashion. And this was washed down with a sparkling bottle of orange champagne, '97.

My friend Victor, who is rather a _gourmet_, was so struck with the first mouthful of soup, that he said it was quite enough, observing, he had never tasted anything like it.

Pleased with this praise, I asked his opinion of the ortolans. He said that their aroma dispensed with the necessity for their consumption. He was evidently surprised.

When the bill was presented by the courteous "chucker-out," we found that most unluckily neither of us had any money.

I append the bill.

Dinners (for two), 1_s._ 9_d._ Champagne, 3_d._ Total, 2_s._

To this I ought really to add:--

Cab (for three) to Marylebone Police Court, 1_s_. 6_d_. (The constable refused to walk without us.)

Loss to reputation by report of proceedings, 8_d_.

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THE BUSINESS OF PLEASURE

_Professor Guzzleton_ (_to Fair Chatterbox_). Are you aware that our host has a French cook?

_Fair Chatterbox._ So I hear!

_Professor Guzzleton._ And that that French cook is the best in London?

_Fair Chatterbox._ So I believe!

_Professor Guzzleton._ Then don't you think we had better defer all further conversation till we meet again in the drawing-room?

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"My uncle, the admiral," said Mrs. Ramsbotham, "is very old fashioned, and always goes to sleep every day after dinner with his banana on his head."

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AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES

"When the wine is in, the wit is out;" Only to dolts the adage reaches. No wise man could for a moment doubt The value of after-dinner speeches.

_Punch_ can remember the time when Peel, Whose wisdom still the country teaches, After steak and port, his nine o'clock meal, Made the best of after-dinner speeches.

When the Ministers come to the Mansion House, (The King of London their presence beseeches,) No guest who has any touch of _nous_ Will be weary of after-dinner speeches.

When the Royal Academy blooms in May, With its pretty girls and their cheeks like peaches Who won't, on the opening Saturday, Listen to after-dinner speeches?

When there's ought that's generous to be done, A greeting to pay that no soul impeaches, A dinner's the best thing under the sun, And its gold coin the after-dinner speeches.

And as to the House, which often suffers From talk that to dreariest platitude reaches, It does not often allow its duffers To make long after-dinner speeches.

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AT THE CRIC-CRAC RESTAURANT

_Customer_ (_looking at bill_). Here, waiter, there's surely some mistake in this total.

_Waiter_ (_politely_). Zehn thousand pardons, sir! Mit my usual carelessness I have added in ze date and vorgot to charge you for ze butter.

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AN OVERSIGHT!

_Swell._ Waiter! This--ah--chop's vewy dwy!

_Waiter._ 'Ndeed, sir? Perhaps if you were to order something to drink with it, sir----

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THE DINNER CHAIRMAN'S VADE MECUM

(_Compiled for the use of Orators during the Month of May Mouthings_)

_Question._ You are accustomed to take the chair at a public dinner?

_Answer._ Yes. Or, to speak by the card, a dinner for the rest of the company.

_Q._ Why, do you not partake of the good cheer before you with the rest of your convives?

_A._ Certainly not. I have to speak later on--a consideration which entirely destroys my appetite.

_Q._ Is there anything new to be said in the loyal toasts?

_A._ No; and therefore it is better to return to the simplest form, which is sure to be received with heartfelt enthusiasm.

_Q._ What can be said about the united service?

_A._ That it is absolutely delightful to expend millions in the furtherance of their interests.

_Q._ And can anything interesting be put in about the Houses of Parliament?

_A._ Not much. Sneers at the Lords are no longer popular, and the Lower House is too respectable to be anything but a dull subject.

_Q._ What about the toast of the evening?

_A._ That must be left to the secretary, who will furnish the chairman with the necessary facts, which may be mixed with original remarks, two-thirds humorous to one-third pathetic.

_Q._ How are the visitors to be treated?

_A._ With fulsome eulogy or comic depreciation inspired by the pages of that excellent manual, _Who's Who_. Particular attention can be paid to the entries under "Recreations" in that admirable work, for appropriate chaff.

_Q._ And in what terms does a chairman respond to the toast of his own health?

_A._ In a few muttered words addressed to an audience composed of a gentleman fast asleep, the toast-master, and the waiters.

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