KETTNER'S (CHURCH STREET)
"I have no amusement at all now," said little Mrs. Tota--we always
called her Mrs. Tota up at Simla, for she was as bright and perky as
her little namesake, the Indian parrot. "George says that the night air
brings on his fever, and refuses to go out after dinner."
George looked up from behind his paper and grunted; but there was a
quiver of his left eyelid which looked very like a wink.
"I never go to a dance now, and you know I _love_ dancing. I never
have any fun like we used to have at the Black Hearts' masked balls at
Simla; the only _kala jugga_ I ever go into is the coalhole. I never
eat a nice little dinner like you used to give us at the Chalet. I
never do anything, or see anything, and all because George thinks he
might suffer from imaginary fever."
George from behind the paper moaned a mocking moan. "If George wouldn't
mind," I said, "I should be delighted to take you out some evening,
give you a little dinner, take you to a box at some theatre, and to a
Covent Garden masked ball afterwards."
"Mind!" said George, reappearing from his paper with great suddenness.
"_Mind!_ Why, my dear fellow, if you will only be so kind as to do that
I shall not be abused for a week. Take her out, and give her dinner and
supper, a box at a theatre and a dance, and my blessing shall be with
you all the days of my life."
Mrs. Tota clapped her hands. "George, for once in your life, you're
nice," she said.
"We'll have a regular Simla evening," I suggested. "The nearest thing I
can think of to the dining-room in the little U.S. Club chalet would be
a private room at one of the restaurants."
Mrs. Tota looked to George for approval, and then nodded in
acquiescence.
"The Savoy private rooms would be too big for our little party of two.
Romano's has some charming Japanese private dining-rooms. There is
the turret-room at Scott's, which looks down on to Piccadilly and the
Haymarket. There are two sweet little corner rooms at the Trocadero,
the bow windows of which command Shaftesbury Avenue. There are----"
"You seem to know a good deal about the private rooms of all the
restaurants," said Mrs. Tota.
"I have an elderly relative who dislikes noise, so when I take him out
to dine----"
"Oh, _him!_" interrupted Mrs. Tota. "Go on with your list."
"There are some very handsome little rooms at the Café Royal, and
Kettner's, and a lot more."
"What's Kettner's, anyway?" queried Mrs. Tota; and I told her of the
snug little restaurant buried away in Church Street, which was first
discovered by two well-known journalists, a restaurant of comfortable
nooks and corners, a restaurant of such individuality that when it was
necessary to rebuild it a few years ago it was rebuilt as nearly as
possible on the old lines, with its three or four public dining-rooms
below, and its network of passages and warren of little rooms above.
I told her of Louis, now in supreme charge, who has been part of
Kettner's since Kettner's first became known to London; and of Henri,
who has charge of the upstairs dining-rooms, and who, with his peaked
beard and clean-shaven upper lip, is the type of _maître d'hôtel_ that
all the French artists who record the life of the boulevards love to
draw.
Mrs. Tota said that it sounded nice. She liked the name; Kettner's
sounded a little unusual, and she liked the description of the
old-fashioned place.
Then I summed up: "You will very kindly pick me up at the club; we will
dine at Kettner's, then go across the way to the Palace Theatre, where
I will have a box; after that back to Kettner's to put on your domino,
which we will leave there; and then on to the Covent Garden ball, where
we will sup in our box and stay until after the procession."
Mrs. Tota declared that I was a dear, and George grunted a few words of
genuine thankfulness.
I went down to Kettner's and interviewed Henri. The nicest possible
little dining-room and a very simple little dinner were what I wanted.
Henri put his head on one side, like a wise magpie, and suggested
oysters as _hors-d'œuvre_. I said that the idea was novel, but that
I preferred caviar. Then Henri relapsed into deep thought. _Petite
marmite_ was his next suggestion, and on this I turned on him and
rent him, figuratively, for every _maître d'hôtel_ in the world
seems to think that _petite marmite_ or _croûte au pot_ is the only
possible beginning to a small plain dinner. Friendly relations were
re-established, and this was our final effort so far as the menu was
concerned--
Caviar.
Consommé à la Colbert.
Filets de sole à la Joinville.
Langue de bœuf aux champignons.
Epinards. Pommes Anna.
Poulet à la Parmentier.
Salade.
Asperges. Sauce mousseline.
Biscuits glacées.
Dessert.
and a bottle of Moët '89, just chilled, to drink with it.
Room A was the dining-room that Henri thought would suit us. So A was
the room selected.
Mrs. Tota, in a very charming black dress with a pattern of tiny steel
sequins on it, with a gorgeous ermine cloak and a mysterious bundle
that I knew must contain the domino, picked me up at the club and
drove me down to Church Street. She was delighted at the appearance
of the cosy little houses and the narrow entrance. Before we went to
our dining-room above I asked Louis to take us through the kitchen,
which, with its walls of white tiles and perfect cleanliness, is well
worth seeing, and we peeped into all the public dining-rooms on the
ground-floor.
"Isn't this quite wrong?" said little Mrs. Tota, who was evidently
enjoying herself. "Oughtn't we to have slipped up the stairs like a
couple of guilty things? Do you take your elderly relative round the
kitchen?"
At that moment Henri appeared and said that our dinner was ready, and
we went up the narrow stairs.
A little room, with a paper in which old gold and soft browns and
green mingled, three windows with warm-coloured curtains to match the
paper, bronze ornaments on the mantelpiece, oil paintings of Italian
scenery on the walls, a tiny sideboard, a square table lighted by gilt
candelabra holding electric lights--Room A is a very snug place to dine
in.
"H'm, yes," said Mrs. Tota. "Not quite like the room in the dear old
Chalet; but quite near enough."
Henri had taken us under his special protection, and had added half
a dozen _hors-d'œuvre_ to the menu besides the caviar, and when the
time came for our slices of tongue he appeared bearing a whole tongue
lavishly garnished.
It was a capital dinner, well cooked throughout, and as Mrs. Tota
praised each dish Henri beamed more and more upon us. And Mrs. Tota
chattered like her namesake. We talked about the famous masked ball
at Simla, at which Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, disguised in mask and
domino, went up to a humorous Irish lady, and, in a feigned voice,
asked her for a dance, receiving a reply that she "hadn't time to be
dancing with boys to-night." We talked of gymkhanas at Annandale, and
picnics at Mashobra, of A.D.C. theatricals and town-hall balls, and we
effectually brought the scent of the deodars into Soho.
Mrs. Tota finished her coffee and Curaçoa Marnier, and sighed as she
drew on her gloves. "Those were good days," she said, and I nodded
assent.
I told Henri to bring me the bill. Two dinners, £1: 1s.; one Moët,
15s.; two cafés, 1s.; two liqueurs, 2s.; total, £1: 19s.
"Henri," I said, "you have let me off too lightly. It should be more
than this"; whereat Henri went through an expressive pantomime which
meant that to undercharge me was the last thing the management would
think of doing.
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.
24_th January_.