CHAPTER XIV

FORMAL DINNERS

=NOT FOR THE NOVICE TO ATTEMPT=

If the great world of society were a university which issued degrees to

those whom it trains to its usages, the _magna cum laude_ honors would be

awarded without question, not to the hostess who may have given the most

marvelous ball of the decade, but to her who knows best every component

detail of preparation and service, no less than every inexorable rule of

etiquette, in formal dinner-giving.

To give a perfect dinner of ceremony is the supreme accomplishment of a

hostess! It means not alone perfection of furnishing, of service, of

culinary skill, but also of personal charm, of tact. The only other

occasion when a hostess must have equal--and possibly even greater

ability--is the large and somewhat formal week-end party, which includes a

dinner or two as by no means its least formidable features.

There are so many aspects to be considered in dinner giving that it is

difficult to know whether to begin up-stairs or down, or with furnishing,

or service, or people, or manners! One thing is certain, no novice should

ever begin her social career by attempting a formal dinner, any more than

a pupil swimmer, upon being able to take three strokes alone, should

attempt to swim three miles out to sea. The former will as surely drown as

the latter.

=HOW A DINNER IS GIVEN IN A GREAT HOUSE=

When Mrs. Worldly gives a dinner, it means no effort on her part

whatsoever beyond deciding upon the date and the principal guests who are

to form the nucleus; every further detail is left to her

subordinates--even to the completion of her list of guests. For instance,

she decides that she will have an "older" dinner, and finding that the

tenth is available for herself, she tells her secretary to send out

invitations for that date. She does not have especial cards engraved but

uses the dinner blank described in the chapter on Invitations. She then

looks through her "dinner list" and orders her secretary to invite the

Oldworlds, the Eminents, the Learneds, the Wellborns, the Highbrows, and

the Onceweres. She also picks out three or four additional names to be

substituted for those who regret. Then turning to the "younger married"

list she searches for a few suitable but "amusing" or good-looking ones to

give life to her dinner which might otherwise be heavy. But her favorites

do not seem appropriate. It will not do to ask the Bobo Gildings, not

because of the difference in age but because Lucy Gilding smokes like a

furnace and is miserable unless she can play bridge for high stakes, and,

just as soon as she can bolt through dinner, sit at a card table; while

Mrs. Highbrow and Mrs. Oncewere quite possibly disapprove of women's

smoking and are surely horrified at "gambling." The Smartlings won't do

either, for the same reason, nor the Gaylies. She can't ask the Newell

Riches either, because Mrs. Oldworld and Mrs. Wellborn both dislike

vulgarity too much to find compensation in qualities which are merely

amusing. So she ends by adding her own friends the Kindharts and the

Normans, who "go" with everyone, and a few somewhat younger people, and

approves her secretary's suggestions as to additional names if those first

invited should "regret."

The list being settled, Mrs. Worldly's own work is done. She sends word to

her cook that there will be twenty-four on the tenth; the menu will be

submitted to her later, which she will probably merely glance at and send

back. She never sees or thinks about her table, which is in the butler's

province.

On the morning of the dinner her secretary brings her the place cards,

(the name of each person expected, written on a separate card) and she

puts them in the order in which they are to be placed on the table, very

much as though playing solitaire. Starting with her own card at one end

and her husband's at the other, she first places the lady of honor on

his right, the second in importance on his left. Then on either side of

herself, she puts the two most important gentlemen. The others she fits in

between, trying to seat side by side those congenial to each other.

[Illustration: "DETAIL OF PLACE SET AT A FORMAL DINNER TABLE OF A GREAT

HOUSE." [Page 179.]]

When the cards are arranged, the secretary attends to putting the name of

the lady who sits on each gentleman's right in the envelope addressed to

him. She then picks up the place cards still stacked in their proper

sequence, and takes them to the butler who will put them in the order

arranged on the table after it is set.

Fifteen minutes before the dinner hour, Mrs. Worldly is already standing

in her drawing-room. She has no personal responsibility other than that of

being hostess. The whole machinery of equipment and service runs seemingly

by itself. It does not matter whether she knows what the menu is. Her cook

is more than capable of attending to it. That the table shall be perfect

is merely the every-day duty of the butler. She knows without looking that

one of the chauffeurs is on the sidewalk; that footmen are in the hall;

that her own maid is in the ladies' dressing-room, and the valet in that

of the gentlemen; and that her butler is just outside the door near which

she is standing.

So with nothing on her mind (except a jewelled ornament and perfectly

"done" hair) she receives her guests with the tranquillity attained only

by those whose household--whether great or small--can be counted on to run

like a perfectly coordinated machine.

=HOW A DINNER CAN BE BUNGLED=

This is the contrasting picture to the dinner at the Worldly's--a picture

to show you particularly who are a bride how awful an experiment in dinner

giving can be.

Let us suppose that you have a quite charming house, and that your wedding

presents included everything necessary to set a well-appointed table. You

have not very experienced servants, but they would all be good ones with a

little more training.

You have been at home for so few meals you don't quite know how

experienced they are. Your cook at least makes good coffee and eggs and

toast for breakfast, and the few other meals she has cooked seemed to be

all right, and she is such a nice clean person!

So when your house is "in order" and the last pictures and curtains are

hung, the impulse suddenly comes to you to give a dinner! Your husband

thinks it is a splendid idea. It merely remains to decide whom you will

ask. You hesitate between a few of your own intimates, or older people,

and decide it would be such fun to ask a few of the hostesses whose houses

you have almost lived at ever since you "came out." You decide to ask Mrs.

Toplofty, Mr. Clubwin Doe, the Worldlys, the Gildings, and the Kindharts

and the Wellborns. With yourselves that makes twelve. You can't have more

than twelve because you have only a dozen of everything; in fact you

decide that twelve will be pretty crowded, but that it will be safe to ask

that number because a few are sure to "regret." So you write notes (since

it is to be a formal dinner), and--they all accept! You are a little

worried about the size of the dining-room, but you are overcome by the

feeling of your popularity. Now the thing to do is to prepare for a

dinner. The fact that Nora probably can't make fancy dishes does not

bother you a bit. In your mind's eye you see delicious plain food passed;

you must get Sigrid a dress that properly fits her, and Delia, the

chambermaid (who was engaged with the understanding that she was to serve

in the dining-room when there was company), has not yet been at table, but

she is a very willing young person who will surely look well.

Nora, when you tell her who are coming, eagerly suggests the sort of menu

that would appear on the table of the Worldlys or the Gildings. You are

thrilled at the thought of your own kitchen producing the same. That it

may be the same in name only, does not occur to you. You order flowers for

the table, and candy for your four compotiers. You pick out your best

tablecloth, but you find rather to your amazement that when the waitress

asks you about setting the table, you have never noticed in detail how the

places are laid. Knives and spoons go on the right of the plate, of

course, and forks on the left, but which goes next to the plate, or

whether the wine glasses should stand nearer or beyond the goblet you can

only guess. It is quite simple, however, to give directions in serving;

you just tell the chambermaid that she is to follow the waitress, and pass

the sauces and the vegetables. And you have already explained carefully to

the latter that she must not deal plates around the table like a pack of

cards, or ever take them off in piles either. (_That_ much at least you do

know.) You also make it a point above everything that the silver must be

very clean; Sigrid seems to understand, and with the optimism of youth,

you approach the dinner hour without misgiving. The table, set with your

wedding silver and glass, looks quite nice. You are a little worried about

the silver--it does look rather yellow, but perhaps it is just a shadow.

Then you notice there are a great many forks on the table! You ask your

husband what is the matter with the forks? He does not see anything wrong.

You need them all for the dinner you ordered, how can there be less? So

you straighten a candlestick that was out of line, and put the place cards

on.

Then you go into the drawing-room. You don't light the fire until the last

moment, because you want it to be burning brightly when your guests

arrive. Your drawing-room looks a little stiff somehow, but an open fire

more than anything else makes a room inviting, and you light it just as

your first guest rings the bell. As Mr. Clubwin Doe enters, the room looks

charming, then suddenly the fire smokes, and in the midst of the smoke

your other guests arrive. Every one begins to cough and blink. They are

very polite, but the smoke, growing each moment denser, is not to be

overlooked. Mrs. Toplofty takes matters in her own hands and makes Mr. Doe

and your husband carry the logs, smoke and all, and throw them into the

yard. The room still thick with smoke is now cheerlessly fireless, and

another factor beginning to distress you is that, although everyone has

arrived, there is no sign of dinner. You wait, at first merely eager to

get out of the smoke-filled drawing-room. Gradually you are becoming

nervous--what can have happened? The dining-room door might be that of a

tomb for all the evidence of life behind it. You become really alarmed.

Is dinner never going to be served? Everyone's eyes are red from the

smoke, and conversation is getting weaker and weaker. Mrs.

Toplofty--evidently despairing--sits down. Mrs. Worldly also sits, both

hold their eyes shut and say nothing. At last the dining-room door opens,

and Sigrid instead of bowing slightly and saying in a low tone of voice,

"Dinner is served," stands stiff as a block of wood, and fairly shouts:

"Dinner's all ready!"

You hope no one heard her, but you know very well that nothing escaped any

one of those present. And between the smoke and the delay and your

waitress' manners, you are already thoroughly mortified by the time you

reach the table. But you hope that at least the dinner will be good. For

the first time you are assailed with doubt on that score. And again you

wait, but the oyster course is all right. And then comes the soup. You

don't have to taste it to see that it is wrong. It looks not at all as

"clear" soup should! Its color, instead of being glass-clear amber, is

greasy-looking brown. You taste it, fearing the worst, and the worst is

realized. It tastes like dish-water--and is barely tepid. You look around

the table; Mr. Kindhart alone is trying to eat it.

In removing the plates, Delia, the assistant, takes them up by piling one

on top of the other, clashing them together as she does so. You can feel

Mrs. Worldly looking with almost hypnotized fascination--as her attention

might be drawn to a street accident against her will. Then there is a

wait. You wait and wait, and looking in front of you, you notice the bare

tablecloth without a plate. You know instantly that the service is wrong,

but you find yourself puzzled to know how it should have been done.

Finally Sigrid comes in with a whole dozen plates stacked in a pile, which

she proceeds to deal around the table. You at least know that to try to

interfere would only make matters worse. You hold your own cold fingers in

your lap knowing that you must sit there, and that you can do nothing.

The fish which was to have been a _mousse_ with Hollandaise sauce, is a

huge mound, much too big for the platter, with a narrow gutter of water

around the edge and the center dabbed over with a curdled yellow mess. You

realize that not only is the food itself awful, but that the quantity is

too great for one dish. You don't know what to do next; you know there is

no use in apologizing, there is no way of dropping through the floor, or

waking yourself up. You have collected the smartest and the most critical

people around your table to put them to torture such as they will never

forget. Never! You have to bite your lips to keep from crying. Whatever

possessed you to ask these people to your horrible house?

Mr. Kindhart, sitting next to you, says gently, "Cheer up, little girl, it

doesn't really matter!" And then you know to the full how terrible the

situation is. The meal is endless; each course is equally unappetizing to

look at, and abominably served. You notice that none of your guests eat

anything. They can't.

You leave the table literally sick, but realizing fully that the giving of

a dinner is not as easy as you thought. And in the drawing-room, which is

now fireless and freezing, but at least smokeless, you start to apologize

and burst into tears!

As you are very young, and those present are all really fond of you, they

try to be comforting, but you know that it will be years (if ever) before

any of them will be willing to risk an evening in your house again. You

also know that without malice, but in truth and frankness, they will tell

everyone: "Whatever you do, don't dine with the Newweds unless you eat

your dinner before you go, and wear black glasses so no sight can offend

you."

When they have all gone, you drag yourself miserably up-stairs, feeling

that you never want to look in that drawing-room or dining-room again.

Your husband, remembering the trenches, tries to tell you it was not so

bad! But you _know!_ You lie awake planning to let the house, and to

discharge each one of your awful household the next morning, and then you

realize that the fault is not a bit more theirs than yours.

If you had tried the chimney first, and learned its peculiarities; if you

yourself had known every detail of cooking and service, of course you

would not have attempted to give the dinner in the first place; not at

least until, through giving little dinners, the technique of your

household had become good enough to give a big one.

On the other hand, supposing that you had had a very experienced cook and

waitress; dinner would, of course, not have been bungled, but it would

have lacked something, somewhere, if you added nothing of your own

personality to its perfection. It is almost safe to make the statement

that no dinner is ever really well done unless the hostess herself knows

every smallest detail thoroughly. Mrs. Worldly pays seemingly no

attention, but nothing escapes her. She can walk through a room without

appearing to look either to the right or left, yet if the slightest detail

is amiss, an ornament out of place, or there is one dull button on a

footman's livery, her house telephone is rung at once!

Having generalized by drawing two pictures, it is now time to take up the

specific details to be considered in giving a dinner.

=DETAILED DIRECTIONS FOR DINNER GIVING=

The requisites at every dinner, whether a great one of 200 covers, or a

little one of six, are as follows:

Guests. People who are congenial to one another. This is of first

importance.

Food. A suitable menu perfectly prepared and dished. (Hot food to be

_hot_, and cold, _cold_.)

Table furnishing. Faultlessly laundered linen, brilliantly polished

silver, and all other table accessories suitable to the occasion and

surroundings.

Service. Expert dining-room servants and enough of them.

Drawing-room. Adequate in size to number of guests and inviting in

arrangement.

A cordial and hospitable host.

A hostess of charm. Charm says everything--tact, sympathy, poise and

perfect manners--always.

And though for all dinners these requisites are much the same, the

necessity for perfection increases in proportion to the formality of the

occasion.

=TASTE IN SELECTION OF PEOPLE=

The proper selection of guests is the first essential in all entertaining,

and the hostess who has a talent for assembling the right people has a

great asset. Taste in house furnishings or in clothes or in selecting a

cook, is as nothing compared to taste in people! Some people have this

"sense"--others haven't. The first are the great hosts and hostesses; the

others are the mediocre or the failures.

It is usually a mistake to invite great talkers together. Brilliant men

and women who love to talk want hearers, not rivals. Very silent people

should be sandwiched between good talkers, or at least voluble talkers.

Silly people should never be put anywhere near learned ones, nor the dull

near the clever, unless the dull one is a young and pretty woman with a

talent for listening, and the clever, a man with an admiration for beauty,

and a love for talking.

Most people think two brilliant people should be put together. Often they

should, but with discretion. If both are voluble or nervous or

"temperamental," you may create a situation like putting two operatic

sopranos in the same part and expecting them to sing together.

The endeavor of a hostess, when seating her table, is to put those

together who are likely to be interesting to each other. Professor Bugge

might bore _you_ to tears, but Mrs. Entomoid would probably delight in

him; just as Mr. Stocksan Bonds and Mrs. Rich would probably have

interests in common. Making a dinner list is a little like making a

Christmas list. You put down what _they_ will (you hope) like, not what

you like. Those who are placed between congenial neighbors remember your

dinner as delightful--even though both food and service were mediocre; but

ask people out of their own groups and seat them next to their pet

aversions, and wild horses could not drag them to your house again!

=HOW A DINNER LIST IS KEPT=

Nearly every hostess keeps a dinner list--apart from her general visiting

list--of people with whom she is accustomed to dine, or to invite to

dinner or other small entertainments. But the prominent hostess, if she

has grown daughters and continually gives parties of all sorts and sizes

and ages, usually keeps her list in a more complete and "ready reference"

order.

Mrs. Gilding, for instance, has guest lists separately indexed. Under the

general heading "Dinners," she has older married, younger married, girls,

men. Her luncheon list is taken from her dinner list. "Bridge" includes

especially good players of all ages; "dances," young married people, young

girls, and dancing men. Then she has a cross-index list of "Important

Persons," meaning those of real distinction who are always the foundation

of all good society; "Amusing," usually people of talent--invaluable for

house parties; and "New People," including many varieties and unassorted.

Mrs. Gilding exchanges invitations with a number of these because they are

interesting or amusing, or because their parties are diverting and

dazzling. And Mrs. Gilding herself, being typical of New York's Cavalier

element rather than its Puritan strain, personally prefers diversion to

edification. Needless to say, "Boston's Best," being ninety-eight per

cent. Puritan, has no "new" list. Besides her list of "New People," she

has a short "frivolous" list of other Cavaliers like herself, and a

"Neutral" list, which is the most valuable of all because it comprises

those who "go" with everyone. Besides her own lists she has a "Pantry"

list, a list that is actually made out for the benefit of the butler, so

that on occasions he can invite guests to "fill in." The "Pantry" list

comprises only intimate friends who belong on the "Neutral" list and fit

in everywhere; young girls and young and older single men.

Allowing the butler to invite guests at his own discretion is not quite as

casual as it sounds. It is very often an unavoidable expedient. For

instance, at four o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Blank telephones that he

cannot come to dinner that same evening. Mrs. Gilding is out; to wait

until she returns will make it too late to fill the place. Her butler who

has been with her for years knows quite as well as Mrs. Gilding herself

exactly which people belong in the same group. The dinner cards being

already in his possession, he can see not only who is expected for dinner

but the two ladies between whom Mr. Blank has been placed, and he

thereupon selects some one on the "Pantry" list who is suitable for Mr.

Blank's place at the table, and telephones the invitation. Perhaps he

calls up a dozen before he finds one disengaged. When Mrs. Gilding returns

he says, "Mr. Blank telephoned he would not be able to come for dinner as

he was called to Washington. Mr. Bachelor will be happy to come in his

place." Married people are seldom on this list, because the butler need

not undertake to fill any but an odd place--that of a gentleman

particularly. Otherwise two ladies would be seated together.

=ASKING SOMEONE TO FILL A PLACE=

Since no one but a fairly intimate friend is ever asked to fill a place,

this invitation is always telephoned. A very young man is asked by the

butler if he will dine with Mrs. Gilding that evening, and very likely no

explanation is made; but if the person to be invited is a lady or an older

gentleman (except on such occasions as noted above), the hostess herself

telephones:

"Can you do me a great favor and fill a place at dinner to-night?" The one

who receives this invitation is rather bound by the rules of good manners

to accept if possible.

=IMPORTANCE OF DINNER ENGAGEMENTS=

Dinner invitations must be answered immediately; engraved or written ones

by return post, or those which were telephoned, by telephone and at once!

Also, nothing but serious illness or death or an utterly unavoidable

accident can excuse the breaking of a dinner engagement.

To accept a dinner at Mrs. Nobody's and then break the obligation upon

being invited to dine with the Worldlys, proclaims anyone capable of such

rudeness an unmitigated snob, whom Mrs. Worldly would be the first to cut

from her visiting list if she knew of it. The rule is: "Don't accept an

invitation if you don't care about it." Having declined the Nobody

invitation in the first place, you are then free to accept Mrs. Worldly's,

or to stay at home. There are times, however, when engagements between

very close friends or members of the family may perhaps be broken, but

only if made with the special stipulation: "Come to dinner with us alone

Thursday if nothing better turns up!" And the other answers, "I'd love

to--and you let me know too, if you want to do anything else." Meanwhile

if one of them is invited to something unusually tempting, there is no

rudeness in telephoning her friend, "Lucy has asked us to hear Galli-Curci

on Thursday!" and the other says, "Go, by all means! We can dine Tuesday

next week if you like, or come Sunday for supper." This privilege of

intimacy can, however, be abused. An engagement, even with a member of

one's family, ought never to be broken twice within a brief period, or it

becomes apparent that the other's presence is more a fill-in of idle time

than a longed-for pleasure.

=THE MENU=

It may be due to the war period, which accustomed everyone to going with

very little meat and to marked reduction in all food, or it may be, of

course, merely vanity that is causing even grandparents to aspire to

svelte figures, but whatever the cause, people are putting much less food

on their tables than formerly. The very rich, living in the biggest houses

with the most imposing array of servants, sit down to three, or at most

four, courses when alone, or when intimate friends who are known to have

moderate appetites, are dining with them.

Under no circumstances would a private dinner, no matter how formal,

consist of more than:

1. Hors d'oeuvre

2. Soup

3. Fish

4. Entrée

5. Roast

6. Salad

7. Dessert

8. Coffee

The menu for an informal dinner would leave out the entrée, and possibly

either the hors d'oeuvre or the soup.

As a matter of fact, the marked shortening of the menu is in informal

dinners and at the home table of the well-to-do. Formal dinners have been

as short as the above schedule for twenty-five years. A dinner interlarded

with a row of extra entrées, Roman punch, and hot dessert is unknown

except at a public dinner, or in the dining-room of a parvenu. About

thirty-five years ago such dinners are said to have been in fashion!

=THE BALANCED MENU=

One should always try to choose well-balanced dishes; an especially rich

dish balanced by a simple one. Timbale with a very rich sauce of cream and

pâté de foie gras might perhaps be followed by French chops, broiled

chicken or some other light, plain meat. An entrée of about four broiled

mushrooms on a small round of toast should be followed by boned capon or

saddle of mutton or spring lamb. It is equally bad to give your guests

very peculiar food unless as an extra dish. Some people love highly

flavored Spanish or Indian dishes, but they are not appropriate for a

formal dinner. At an informal dinner an Indian curry or Spanish enchillada

for one dish is delicious for those who like it, and if you have another

substantial dish such as a plain roast which practically everyone is able

to eat, those who don't like Indian food can make their dinner of the

other course.

It is the same way with the Italian dishes. One hating garlic and onions

would be very wretched if onions were put in each and every course, and

liberally. With Indian curry, a fatally bad selection would be a very

peppery soup, such as croute au pot filled with pepper, and fish with

green peppers, and then the curry, and then something casserole filled

again with peppers and onions and other throat-searing ingredients,

finishing with an endive salad. Yet more than one hostess has done exactly

this. Or equally bad is a dinner of flavorless white sauces from beginning

to end; a creamed soup, boiled fish with white sauce, then vol au vent of

creamed sweetbreads, followed by breast of chicken and mashed potatoes and

cauliflower, palm root salad, vanilla ice cream and lady-cake. Each thing

is good in itself but dreadful in the monotony of its combination.

Another thing: although a dinner should not be long, neither should it

consist of samples, especially if set before men who are hungry!

The following menu might seem at first glance a good dinner, but it is one

from which the average man would go home and forage ravenously in the ice

box:

A canapé (good, but merely an appetizer)

Clear soup (a dinner party helping, and no substance)

Smelts (one apiece)

Individual croutards of sweetbreads (holding about a dessert-spoonful)

Broiled squab, small potato croquette, and string beans

Lettuce salad, with about one small cracker apiece

Ice cream

The only thing that had any sustaining quality, barring the potato which

was not more than a mouthful, was the last, and very few men care to make

their dinner of ice cream. If instead of squab there had been filet of

beef cut in generous slices, and the potato croquettes had been more

numerous, it would have been adequate. Or if there had been a thick cream

soup, and a fish with more substance--such as salmon or shad, or a baked

thick fish of which he could have had a generous helping--the squab would

have been adequate also. But many women order trimmings rather than food;

men usually like food.

=THE DINNER TABLE OF YESTERDAY=

All of us old enough to remember the beginning of this century can bring

to mind the typical (and most fashionable) dinner table of that time.

Occasionally it was oblong or rectangular, but its favorite shape was

round, and a thick white damask cloth hung to the floor on all sides.

Often as not there was a large lace centerpiece, and in the middle of it

was a floral mound of roses (like a funeral piece, exactly), usually red.

The four compotiers were much scrolled and embossed, and the four

candlesticks, also scrolled, but not to match, had shades of perforated

silver over red silk linings, like those in restaurants to-day. And there

was a gas droplight thickly petticoated with fringed red silk. The plates

were always heavily "jewelled" and hand painted, and enough forks and

knives and spoons were arrayed at each "place" for a dozen courses. The

glasses numbered at least six, and the entire table was laden with little

dishes--and spoons! There were olives, radishes, celery and salted nuts in

glass dishes; and about ten kinds of sugar-plums in ten different styles

of ornate and bumpy silver dishes; and wherever a small space of

tablecloth showed through, it was filled with either a big "Apostle" spoon

or little Dutch ones criss-crossed.

Bread was always rolled in the napkin (and usually fell on the floor) and

the oysters were occasionally found already placed on the table when the

guests came in to dinner! Loading a table to the utmost of its capacity

with useless implements which only in rarest instances had the least

value, would seem to prove that quantity without quality must have been

thought evidence of elegance and generous hospitality! And the astounding

part of the bad taste epidemic was that few if any escaped. Even those who

had inherited colonial silver and glass and china of consummate beauty,

sent it dust-gathering to the attic and cluttered their tables with stuffy

and spurious lumber.

But to-day the classic has come into its own again! As though recovering

from an illness, good taste is again demanding severe beauty of form and

line, and banishing everything that is useless or superfluous. During the

last twenty years most of us have sent an army of lumpy dishes to the

melting-pot, and junky ornaments to the ash heap along with plush table

covers, upholstered mantel-boards and fern dishes! To-day we are going

almost to the extreme of bareness, and putting nothing on our tables not

actually needed for use.

=THE DINING-ROOM=

It is scarcely necessary to point out that the bigger and more ambitious

the house, the more perfect its appointments must be. If your house has a

great Georgian dining-room, the table should be set with Georgian or an

_earlier_ period English silver. Furthermore, in a "great" dining-room,

all the silver should be real! "Real" meaning nothing so trifling as

"sterling," but genuine and important "period" pieces made by Eighteenth

Century silversmiths, such as de Lamerie or Crespell or Buck or Robertson,

or perhaps one of their predecessors. Or if, like Mrs. Oldname, you live

in an old Colonial house, you are perhaps also lucky enough to have

inherited some genuine American pieces made by Daniel Rogers or Paul

Revere! Or if you are an ardent admirer of Early Italian architecture and

have built yourself a Fifteenth Century stone-floored and frescoed or

tapestry-hung dining room, you must set your long refectory table with a

"runner" of old hand-linen and altar embroidery, or perhaps Thirteenth

Century damask and great cisterns or ewers and beakers in high-relief

silver and gold; or in Callazzioli or majolica, with great bowls of fruit

and church candlesticks of gilt, and even follow as far as is practicable

the crude table implements of that time. It need not be pointed out that

Twentieth Century appurtenances in a Thirteenth or Fifteenth Century room

are anachronisms. But because the dining-table in the replica of a palace

(whether English, Italian, Spanish or French) may be equipped with great

"standing cups" and candelabra so heavy a man can scarcely lift one, it

does not follow that all the rest of us who live in medium or small

houses, should attempt anything of the sort. Nothing could be more out of

proportion--and therefore in worse taste. Nor is it necessary, in order to

have a table that is inviting, to set it with any of the completely

exquisite things which all people of taste long for, but which are

possessed (in quantity at least) only through wealth, inheritance, or

"collector's luck."

=A PLEASING DINING-ROOM AT LIMITED COST=

Enchanting dining-rooms and tables have been achieved with an outlay

amounting to comparatively nothing.

There is a dining-room in a certain small New York house that is quite as

inviting as it is lacking in expensiveness. Its walls are rough-plastered

"French gray." Its table is an ordinary drop-leaf kitchen one painted a

light green that is almost gray; the chairs are wooden ones, somewhat on

the Windsor variety, but made of pine and painted like the table, and the

side tables or consoles are made of a cheap round pine table which has

been sawed in half, painted gray-green, and the legless sides fastened to

the walls. The glass curtains are point d'esprit net with a deep flounce

at the bottom and outside curtains are (expensive) watermelon pink

changeable taffeta. There is a gilt mirror over a cream (absolutely plain)

mantel and over each console a picture of a conventional bouquet of

flowers in a flat frame the color of the furniture, with the watermelon

color of the curtains predominating in a neutral tint background. The

table is set with a rather coarse cream-colored linen drawn-work

centerpiece (a tea cloth actually) big enough to cover all but three

inches of table edge. In the middle of the table is a glass bowl with a

wide turn-over rim, holding deep pink flowers (roses or tulips) standing

upright in glass flower holders as though growing. In midwinter, when real

flowers are too expensive, porcelain ones take their place--unless there

is a lunch or dinner party. The compotiers are glass urns and the only

pieces of silver used are two tall Sheffield candelabra at night, without

shades, the salts and peppers and the necessary spoons and forks. The

knives are "ivory" handled.

=SETTING THE TABLE=

Everything on the table must be geometrically spaced; the centerpiece in

the actual center, the "places" at equal distances, and all utensils

balanced; beyond this one rule you may set your table as you choose.

If the tablecloth is of white damask, which for dinner is always good

style, a "felt" must be put under it. (To say that it must be smooth and

white, in other words perfectly laundered, is as beside the mark as to say

that faces and hands should be clean!) If the tablecloth has lace

insertions, it must on no account be put over satin or over a color. In a

very "important" dining-room and on a very large table, a cloth of plain

and finest quality damask with no trimming other than a monogram (or

crest) embroidered on either side, is in better taste than one of linen

with elaborations of lace and embroidery. Damask is the old-fashioned but

essentially conservative (and safely best style) tablecloth, especially,

suitable in a high-ceilinged room that is either English, French, or of no

special period, in decoration. Lace tablecloths are better suited to an

Italian room--especially if the table is a refectory one. Handkerchief

linen tablecloths embroidered and lace-inserted are also, strangely

enough, suited to all quaint, low-ceilinged, old-fashioned but beautifully

appointed rooms; the reason being that the lace cloth is put over a bare

table. The lace cloth must also go over a refectory table without felt or

other lining.

Very high-studded rooms (unless Italian) on the other hand, seem to need

the thickness of damask. To be sure, one does see in certain houses--at

the Gildings' for instance--an elaborate lace and embroidery tablecloth

put on top of a plain one which in turn goes over a felt, but this

combination is always somewhat overpowering, whereas lace over a bare

table is light and fragile.

Another thing--very ornate, large, and arabesqued designs, no matter how

marvellous as examples of workmanship, inevitably produce a vulgar effect.

All needlework, whether to be used on the table or on a bed, must, in a

beautifully finished house, be fine rather than striking. Coarse linen,

coarse embroideries, all sorts of Russian drawn-work, Italian needlework

or mosaic (but avoiding big scrolled patterns), are in perfect

keeping--and therefore in good taste--in a cottage, a bungalow or a house

whose furnishings are not too fine.

But whatever type of cloth is used, the middle crease must be put on so

that it is an absolutely straight and unwavering line down the exact

center from head to foot. If it is an embroidered one, be sure the

embroidery is "right side out." Next goes the centerpiece which is always

the chief ornament. Usually this is an arrangement of flowers in either a

bowl or a vase, but it can be any one of an almost unlimited variety of

things; flowers or fruit in any arrangement that taste and ingenuity can

devise; or an ornament in silver that needs no flowers, such as a covered

cup; or an epergne, which, however, necessitates the use of fruit, flowers

or candy. Mrs. Wellborn, for instance, whose heirlooms are better than her

income, rarely uses flowers, but has a wonderful old centerpiece that is

ornament enough in itself. The foundation is a mirror representing a lake,

surrounded by silver rocks and grass. At one side, jutting into the lake,

is a knoll with a group of trees sheltering a stag and doe. The ornament

is entirely of silver, almost twenty inches high, and about twenty inches

in diameter across the "lake."

The Normans have a full-rigged silver ship in the center of their table

and at either end rather tall lanterns, Venetian really, but rather

appropriate to the ship; and the salt cellars are very tall ones (about

ten inches high), of sea shells supported on the backs of dolphins.

However, to go back to table setting: A cloth laid straight; then a

centerpiece put in the middle; then four candlesticks at the four corners,

about half-way between the center and the edge of the table, or two

candelabra at either end halfway between the places of the host and

hostess and the centerpiece. Candles are used with or without shades.

Fashion at the moment, says "without," which means that, in order to bring

the flame well above people's eyes, candlesticks or candelabra must be

high and the candles as long as the proportion can stand. Longer candles

can be put in massive candlesticks than in fragile ones. But whether

shaded or not, there are candles on all dinner tables always! The center

droplight has gone out entirely. Electroliers in candlesticks were never

good style, and kerosene lamps in candlesticks--horrible! Fashion says,

"Candles! preferably without shades, but shades if you insist, and few or

many--but candles!"

Next comes the setting of the places. (If it is an extension table, leaves

have, of course, been put in; or if it is stationary, guests have been

invited according to its size.) The distance between places at the table

must never be so short that guests have no elbow room, and that the

servants can not pass the dishes properly; when the dining-room chairs are

very high backed and are placed so close as to be almost touching, it is

impossible for them not to risk spilling something over some one. On the

other hand, to place people a yard or more apart so that conversation has

to be shouted into the din made by everyone else's shouting, is equally

trying. About two feet from plate center to plate center is ideal. If the

chairs have narrow and low backs, people can sit much closer together,

especially at a small round table, the curve of which leaves a spreading

wedge of space between the chairs at the back even if the seats touch at

the front corners. But on the long straight sides of a rectangular table

in a very large--and impressive--dining-room there should be at least a

foot of space between the chairs.

=SETTING THE PLACES=

The necessary number of plates, with the pattern or initials right side

up, are first put around the table at equal distances (spaced with a tape

measure if the butler or waitress has not an accurate eye). Then on the

left of each plate, handle towards the edge of the table, and prongs up,

is put the salad fork, the meat fork is put next, and then the fish fork.

The salad fork, which will usually be the third used, is thus laid

nearest to the plate. If there is an entrée, the fork for this course is

placed between the fish fork and that for the roast and the salad fork is

left to be brought in later. On the right of the plate, and nearest to it,

is put the steel meat knife, then the silver fish knife, the edge of each

toward the plate. Then the soup spoon and then the oyster fork or grape

fruit spoon. Additional forks and knives are put on the table during

dinner.

In putting on the glasses, the water goblet is at the top and to the right

of the knives, and the wine glasses are either grouped to the right of the

goblet, or in a straight line slanting down from the goblet obliquely

towards the right. (Butter plates are never put on a dinner table.) A

dinner napkin folded square and flat is laid on each "place" plate; very

fancy foldings are not in good taste, but if the napkin is very large, the

sides are folded in so as to make a flattened roll a third the width of

its height. (Bread should _not_ be put in the napkin--not nowadays.) The

place cards are usually put above the plate on the tablecloth, but some

people put them on top of the napkin because they are more easily read.

When the places have been set, four silver dishes (or more on a very big

table), either bowl or basket or paten shaped, are put at the four

corners, between the candlesticks (or candelabra) and the centerpiece; or

wherever there are four equally spaced vacancies on the table. These

dishes, or compotiers, hold candy or fruit, chosen less for taste than for

decorative appearance.

On a very large table the four compotiers are filled with candy, and two

or four larger silver dishes or baskets are filled with fruit and put on

alternately with the candy dishes. Flowers are also often put in two or

four smaller vases, in addition to a larger and dominating one in the

center.

Peppers and salts should be put at every other place. For a dinner of

twelve there should be six salt cellars at least, if not six pepper pots.

Olives and radishes are served from the side table, but salted nuts are

often put on the dinner table either in two big silver dishes, or in small

individual ones.

=HAVE SILVER THAT SHINES OR NONE=

Lots of people who would not dream of using a wrinkled tablecloth or

chipped glass or china, seem perfectly blind to dirty silver--silver that

is washed clean of food of course, but so dull that it looks like

jaundiced pewter.

Don't put any silver on your table if you can't have it cleaned.

Infinitely rather have every ornament of glass or china--and if knives and

forks have crevices in the design of their handles that are hard to clean,

buy plain plated ones, or use tin! Anything is better than yellow-faced

dirty-finger-nailed silver. The first thing to ask in engaging a waitress

is, "Can you clean silver?" If she can't, she would better be something

else.

Of course no waitress and no single-handed butler can keep silver the way

it is kept in such houses as the Worldlys', nor is such perfection

expected. The silver polishing of perfection in huge houses is done by

such an expert that no one can tell whether a fork has that moment been

sent from the silversmiths or not. It is not merely polished until it is

bright, but burnished so that it is new! Every piece of silver in certain

of the great establishments, or in smaller ones that are run like a great

one, is never picked up by a servant except with a rouged chamois. No

piece of silver is ever allowed by the slightest chance to touch another

piece. Every piece is washed separately. The footman who gathers two or

three forks in a bunch will never do it a second time, and keep his place.

If the ring of a guest should happen to scratch a knife handle or a fork,

the silver-polisher may have to spend an entire day using his thumb or a

silver buffer, and rub and rub until no vestige of a scratch remains.

Perfection such as this is attainable only in a great house where servants

are specialists of super-efficiency; but in every perfectly run house,

where service is not too limited, every piece of silver that is put on the

table, at every meal, is handled with a rouged chamois and given a quick

wipe-off as it is laid on the dining table. No silver should ever be

picked up in the fingers as that always leaves a mark.

And the way "moderate" households, which are nevertheless perfectly run

for their size and type, have burnished silver, is by using not more than

they can have cleaned.

In view of the present high cost of living (including wages) and the

consequent difficulty, with a reduced number of servants, of keeping a

great quantity of silver brilliant, even the most fashionable people are

more and more using only what is essential, and in occasional instances,

are taking to china! People who are lucky enough to have well-stored

attics these days are bringing treasures out of them.

But services of Swansea or Lowestoft or Spode, while easily cleaned, are

equally easily broken, so that genuine Eighteenth Century pieces are more

apt to see a cabinet than a dinner table.

But the modern manufacturers are making enchanting "sets" that are

replicas of the old. These tea sets with cups and saucers to match and

with a silver kettle and tray, are seen almost as often as silver services

in simple houses in the country, as well as in the small apartment in

town.

=DON'TS IN TABLE SETTING!=

Don't put ribbon trimmings on your table. Satin bands and bows have no

more place on a lady's table than have chop-house appurtenances. Pickle

jars, catsup bottles, toothpicks and crackers are not private-house table

ornaments. Crackers are passed with oyster stew and with salad, and any

one who wants "relishes" can have them in his own house (though they

insult the cook!). At all events, pickles and tomato sauces and other cold

meat condiments are never presented at table in a bottle, but are put in

glass dishes with small serving spoons. Nothing is ever served from the

jar or bottle it comes in except certain kinds of cheese, Bar-le-Duc

preserves (only sometimes) and wines. Pickles, jellies, jams, olives, are

all put into small glass dishes.

Saucers for vegetables are contrary to all etiquette. The only extra

plates ever permitted are the bread and butter plates which are put on at

breakfast and lunch and supper above and to the left of the forks, but

_never_ at dinner. The crescent-shaped salad plate, made to fit at the

side of the place plate, is seen rarely in fashionable houses. When two

plates are made necessary by the serving of game or broiled chicken or

squab, for which the plate should be very hot, at the same time as the

salad which is cold, the crescent-shaped plate is convenient in that it

takes little room.

A correct and very good serving dish for a family of two, is the vegetable

dish that has a partition dividing it into two or even three divisions, so

that a small quantity of two or three vegetables can be passed at the same

time.

Napkin rings are unknown in fashionable houses outside of the nursery. But

in large families where it is impossible to manage such a wash as three

clean napkins a day entail, napkin rings are probably necessary. In most

moderately run houses, a napkin that is unrumpled and spotless after a

meal, is put aside and used again for breakfast; but to be given a napkin

that is not perfectly clean is a horrid thought. Perhaps though, the

necessity for napkin rings results in the achievement of the immaculate

napkin--which is quite a nice thought.

=CORRECT SERVICE OF DINNER=

Whether there are two at table or two hundred, plates are changed and

courses presented in precisely the same manner.

For faultless service, if there are many "accompanied" dishes, two

servants are necessary to wait on as few as two persons. But two can also

efficiently serve eight; or with unaccompanied dishes an expert servant

can manage eight alone, and with one assistant, he can perfectly manage

twelve.

In old-fashioned times people apparently did not mind waiting tranquilly

through courses and between courses, even though meat grew cold long

before the last of many vegetables was passed, and they waited endlessly

while a slow talker and eater finished his topic and his food. But people

of to-day do not like to wait an unnecessary second. The moment fish is

passed them, they expect the cucumbers or sauce, or whatever should go

with the fish, to follow immediately. And when the first servant hands the

meat course, they consider that they should not be expected to wait a

moment for a second servant to hand the gravy or jelly or whatever goes

with the meat. No service is good in this day unless swift--and, of

course, soundless.

A late leader of Newport society who had a world-wide reputation for the

brilliancy of her entertainments, had an equally well-known reputation for

rapidly served dinners. "Twenty minutes is quite long enough to sit at

table--ever!" is what she used to say, and what her household had to live

up to. She had a footman to about every two guests and any one dining with

her had to cling to the edge of his plate or it would be whisked away! One

who looked aside or "let go" for a second found his plate gone! That was

extreme; but, even so, better than a snail-paced dinner!

=THE DINNER HOUR=

In America the dinner hour is not a fixture, since it varies in various

sections of the country. The ordinary New York hour when "giving a dinner"

is eight o'clock, half past eight in Newport. In New York, when dining and

going to the opera, one is usually asked for seven-fifteen, and for

seven-thirty before going to a play. Otherwise only "quiet" people dine

before eight. But invitations should, of course, be issued for whatever

hour is customary in the place where the dinner is given.

=THE BUTLER IN THE DINING-ROOM=

When the dinner guests enter the dining-room, it is customary for the

butler to hold out the chair of the mistress of the house. This always

seems a discourtesy to the guests. And an occasional hostess insists on

having the chair of the guest of honor held by the butler instead of her

own. If there are footmen enough, the chair of each lady is held for her;

otherwise the gentleman who takes her in to dinner helps her to be seated.

Ordinarily where there are two servants, the head one holds the chair of

the hostess and the second, the chair on the right of the host. The

hostess always seats herself as quickly as possible so that the butler may

be free to assist a guest to draw her chair up to the table.

In a big house the butler always stands throughout a meal back of the

hostess' chair, except when giving one of the men under him a direction,

or when pouring wine. He is not supposed to leave the dining-room himself

or ever to handle a dish. In a smaller house where he has no assistant, he

naturally does everything himself; when he has a second man or

parlor-maid, he passes the principal dishes and the assistant follows with

the accompanying dishes or vegetables.

So-called "Russian" service is the only one known in New York which merely

means that nothing to eat is ever put on the table except ornamental

dishes of fruit and candy. The meat is carved in the kitchen or pantry,

vegetables are passed and returned to the side table. Only at breakfast or

possibly at supper are dishes of food put on the table.

=THE EVER-PRESENT PLATE=

From the setting of the table until it is cleared for dessert, a plate

must remain at every cover. Under the first two courses there are always

two plates. The plate on which oysters or hors d'oeuvres are served is put

on top of the place plate. At the end of the course the used plate is

removed, leaving the place plate. The soup plate is also put on top of

this same plate. But when the soup plate is removed, the underneath plate

is removed with it, and a hot plate immediately exchanged for the two

taken away. The place plate merely becomes a hot fish plate, but it is

there just the same.

_The Exchange Plate_

If the first course had been a canapé or any cold dish that was offered in

bulk instead of being brought on separate plates, it would have been eaten

on the place plate, and an exchange plate would have been necessary before

the soup could be served. That is, a clean plate would have been

exchanged for the used one, and the soup plate then put on top of that.

The reason for it is that a plate with food on it can never be exchanged

for a plate that has had food on it; a clean one must come between.

If an entrée served on individual plates follows the fish, clean plates

are first exchanged for the used ones until the whole table is set with

clean plates. Then the entrée is put at each place in exchange for the

clean plate. Although dishes are always presented at the left of the

person served, plates are removed and replaced at the right. Glasses are

poured and additional knives placed at the right, but forks are put on as

needed from the left.

_May the Plates for Two Persons Be Brought in Together?_

The only plates that can possibly be brought into the dining-room one in

each hand are for the hors d'oeuvres, soup and dessert. The first two

plates are placed on others which have not been removed, and the dessert

plates need merely be put down on the tablecloth. But the plates of every

other course have to be exchanged and therefore each individual service

requires two hands. Soup plates, two at a time, would better not be

attempted by any but the expert and sure-handed, as it is in placing one

plate, while holding the other aloft that the mishap of "soup poured down

some one's back" occurs! If only one plate of soup is brought in at a

time, that accident at least cannot happen. In the same way the spoon and

fork on the dessert plate can easily fall off, unless it is held level.

"Two plates at a time" therefore is not a question of etiquette, but of

the servant's skill.

_Plate Removed When Fork Is Laid Down_

Once upon a time it was actually considered impolite to remove a single

plate until the last guest at the table had finished eating! In other days

people evidently did not mind looking at their own dirty plates

indefinitely, nor could they have minded sitting for hours at table. Good

service to-day requires the removal of each plate as soon as the fork is

laid upon it; so that by the time the last fork is put down, the entire

table is set with clean plates and is ready for the next course.

=DOUBLE SERVICE AND THE ORDER OF TABLE PRECEDENCE=

At every well-ordered dinner, there should be a double service for ten or

twelve persons; that is, no hot dish should, if avoidable, be presented to

more than six, or nine at the outside. At a dinner of twelve, for

instance, two dishes each holding six portions, are garnished exactly

alike and presented at opposite ends of the table. One to the lady on the

right of the host, and the other to the lady at the opposite end of the

table. The services continue around to the right, but occasional butlers

direct that after serving the "lady of honor" on the right of the host,

the host is skipped and the dish presented to the lady on his left, after

which the dish continues around the table to the left, to ladies and

gentlemen as they come. In this event the second service starts opposite

the lady of honor and also skips the first gentleman, after which it goes

around the table to the left, skips the lady of honor and ends with the

host. The first service when it reaches the other end of the table skips

the lady who was first served and ends with the gentleman who was skipped.

It is perhaps more polite to the ladies to give them preference, but it is

complicated, and leaves another gentleman as well as the host, sitting

between two ladies who are eating while he is apparently forgotten. The

object (which is to prevent the lady who is second in precedence from

being served last) can be accomplished by beginning the first service from

the lady on the right of the host and continuing on the right 6 places;

the second service begins with the lady on the left of the host and

continues on the left five places, and then comes back to the host. The

best way of all, perhaps, is to vary the "honor" by serving the entrée and

salad courses first to the lady on the left instead of to the lady on the

right and continue the service of these two courses to the left.

A dinner of eighteen has sometimes two services, but if _very_ perfect,

three. Where there are three services they start with the lady of honor

and the sixth from her on either side and continue to the right.

=FILLING GLASSES=

As soon as the guests are seated and the first course put in front of

them, the butler goes from guest to guest on the right hand side of each,

and asks "Apollinaris or plain water!" and fills the goblet accordingly.

In the same way he asks later before pouring wine: "Cider, sir?" "Grape

fruit cup, madam?" Or in a house which has the remains of a cellar,

"Champagne?" or "Do you care for whiskey and soda, sir?"

But the temperature and service of wines which used to be an essential

detail of every dinner have now no place at all. Whether people will offer

frappéd cider or some other iced drink in the middle of dinner, and a

warmed something else to take the place of claret with the fish, remains

to be seen. A water glass standing alone at each place makes such a meager

and untrimmed looking table that most people put on at least two wine

glasses, sherry and champagne, or claret and sherry, and pour something

pinkish or yellowish into them. A rather popular drink at present is an

equal mixture of white grape-juice and ginger ale with mint leaves and

much ice. Those few who still have cellars, serve wines exactly as they

used to, white wine, claret, sherry and Burgundy warm, champagne ice cold;

and after dinner, green mint poured over crushed ice in little glasses,

and other liqueurs of room temperature. Whiskey is always poured at the

table over ice in a tall tumbler, each gentleman "saying when" by putting

his hand out. The glass is then filled with soda or Apollinaris.

As soon as soup is served the parlor-maid or a footman passes a dish or a

basket of dinner rolls. If rolls are not available, bread cut in about

two-inch-thick slices, is cut cross-ways again in three. An old-fashioned

silver cake basket makes a perfect modern bread-basket. Or a small wicker

basket that is shallow and inconspicuous will do. A guest helps himself

with his fingers and lays the roll or bread on the tablecloth, always. No

bread plates are ever on a table where there is no butter, and no butter

is ever served at a dinner. Whenever there is no bread left at any one's

place at table, more should be passed. The glasses should also be kept

filled.

=PRESENTING DISHES=

Dishes are presented held flat on the palm of the servant's right hand;

every hot one must have a napkin placed as a pad under it. An especially

heavy meat platter can be steadied if necessary by holding the edge of the

platter with the left hand, the fingers protected from being burned by a

second folded napkin.

Each dish is supplied with whatever implements are needed for helping it;

a serving spoon (somewhat larger than an ordinary tablespoon) is put on

all dishes and a fork of large size is added for fish, meat, salad and any

vegetables or other dishes that are hard to help. String beans, braised

celery, spinach en branche, etc., need a fork and spoon. Asparagus has

various special lifters and tongs, but most people use the ordinary spoon

and fork, putting the spoon underneath and the fork, prongs down, to hold

the stalks on the spoon while being removed to the plate. Corn on the cob

is taken with the fingers, but is _never_ served at a dinner party. A

galantine or mousse, as well as peas, mashed potatoes, rice, etc., are

offered with a spoon only.

=THE SERVING TABLE=

The serving table is an ordinary table placed in the corner of the

dining-room near the door to the pantry, and behind a screen, so that it

may not be seen by the guests at table. In a small dining-room where space

is limited, a set of shelves like a single bookcase is useful.

The serving table is a halfway station between the dinner table and the

pantry. It holds stacks of cold plates, extra forks and knives, and the

finger bowls and dessert plates. The latter are sometimes put out on the

sideboard, if the serving table is small or too crowded.

At little informal dinners all dishes of food after being passed are left

on the serving table in case they are called upon for a second helping.

But at formal dinners, dishes are never passed twice, and are therefore

taken direct to the pantry after being passed.

=CLEARING TABLE FOR DESSERT=

At dinner always, whether at a formal one, or whether a member of the

family is alone, the salad plates, or the plates of whatever course

precedes dessert, are removed, leaving the table plateless. The salt

cellars and pepper pots are taken off on the serving tray (without being

put on any napkin or doily, as used to be the custom), and the crumbs are

brushed off each place at table with a folded napkin onto a tray held

under the table edge. A silver crumb scraper is still seen occasionally

when the tablecloth is plain, but its hard edge is not suitable for

embroidery and lace, and ruinous to a bare table, so that a napkin folded

to about the size and thickness of an iron-holder is the crumb-scraper of

to-day.

=DESSERT=

The captious say "dessert means the fruit and candy which come after the

ices." "Ices" is a misleading word too, because suggestive of the

individual "ices" which flourished at private dinners in the Victorian

age, and still survive at public dinners, suppers at balls, and at wedding

breakfasts, but which are seen at not more than one private dinner in a

thousand--if that.

In the present world of fashion the "dessert" is ice-cream, served in one

mold; not ices (a lot of little frozen images). And the refusal to call

the "sweets" at the end of the dinner, which certainly include ice cream

and cake, "dessert," is at least not the interpretation of either good

usage or good society. In France, where the word "dessert" originated,

"ices" were set apart from dessert merely because French chefs delight in

designating each item of a meal as a separate course. But chefs and

cook-books notwithstanding, dessert means everything sweet that comes at

the end of a meal. And the great American dessert is ice cream--or pie.

Pie, however, is not a "company" dessert. Ice cream on the other hand is

the inevitable conclusion of a formal dinner. The fact that the spoon

which is double the size of a teaspoon is known as nothing but a dessert

spoon, is offered in further proof that "dessert" is "spoon" and not

"finger" food!

_Dessert Service_

There are two, almost equally used, methods of serving dessert. The first

or "hotel method," also seen in many fashionable private houses, is to put

on a china plate for ice cream or a first course, and the finger bowl on a

plate by itself, afterwards. In the "private house" service, the entire

dessert paraphernalia is put on at once.

In detail: In the two-course, or hotel, service, the "dessert" plate is of

china, or if of glass, it must have a china one under it. A china dessert

plate is just a fairly deep medium sized plate and it is always put on the

table with a "dessert" spoon and fork on it. After the inevitable ice

cream has been eaten, a fruit plate with a finger bowl on it, is put on in

exchange. A doily goes under the finger bowl, and a fruit knife and fork

on either side.

In the single course, or private house, service, the ice cream plate is of

glass and belongs under the finger bowl which it matches. The glass plate

and finger bowl in turn are put on the fruit plate with a doily between,

and the dessert spoon and fork go on either side of the finger bowl

(instead of the fruit knife and fork). This arrangement of plates is seen

in such houses as the Worldlys' and the Oldnames', and in fact in most

very well done houses. The finger bowls and glass plates that match make a

prettier service than the finger bowl on a china plate by itself; also it

eliminates a change--but not a removal--of plates. In this service, a

guest lifts the finger bowl off and eats his ice cream on the glass plate,

after which the glass plate is removed and the china one is left for

fruit.

Some people think this service confusing because an occasional guest, in

lifting off the finger bowl, lifts the glass plate too, and eats his

dessert on his china plate. It is merely necessary for the servants to

notice at which place the china plate has been used and to bring a clean

one; otherwise a "cover" is left with a glass plate or a bare tablecloth

for fruit. Also any one taking fruit must have a fruit knife and fork

brought to him. Fruit is passed immediately after ice-cream; and

chocolates, conserves, or whatever the decorative sweets may be, are

passed last.

This single service may sound as though it were more complicated than the

two-course service, but actually it is less. Few people use the wrong

plate and usually the ice-cream plates having others under them can be

taken away two at a time. Furthermore, scarcely any one takes fruit, so

that the extra knives and forks are few, if any.

Before finishing dessert, it may be as well to add in detail, that the

finger bowl doiley is about five or six inches in diameter; it may be

round or square, and of the finest and sheerest needlework that can be

found (or afforded). It must always be cream or white. Colored

embroideries look well sometimes on a country lunch table but not at

dinner. No matter where it is used, the finger bowl is less than half

filled with cold water; and at dinner parties, a few violets, sweet peas,

or occasionally a gardenia, is put in it. (A slice of lemon is never seen

outside of a chop-house where eating with the fingers may necessitate the

lemon in removing grease. Pretty thought!)

Black coffee is never served at a fashionable dinner table, but is brought

afterwards with cigarettes and liqueurs into the drawing-room for the

ladies, and with cigars, cigarettes and liqueurs into the smoking room for

the gentlemen.

If there is no smoking-room, coffee and cigars are brought to the table

for the gentlemen after the ladies have gone into the drawing-room.

=PLACE CARDS=

The place cards are usually about an inch and a half high by two inches

long, sometimes slightly larger. People of old family have their crest

embossed in plain white; occasionally an elderly hostess, following a

lifelong custom, has her husband's crest stamped in gold. Nothing other

than a crest must ever be engraved on a place card; and usually they are

plain, even in the houses of old families.

Years ago "hand-painted" place cards are said to have been in fashion. But

excepting on such occasions as a Christmas or a birthday dinner, they are

never seen in private houses to-day.

=MENU CARDS=

Small, standing porcelain slates, on which the menu is written, are seen

on occasional dinner tables. Most often there is only one which is placed

in front of the host; but sometimes there is one between every two guests.

=SEATING THE TABLE=

As has already been observed, the most practical way to seat the table is

to write the names on individual cards first, and then "place" them as

though playing solitaire; the guest of honor on the host's right, the

second lady in rank on his left; the most distinguished or oldest

gentleman on the right of the hostess, and the other guests filled in

between.

=WHO IS THE GUEST OF HONOR?=

The guest of honor is the oldest lady present, or a stranger whom you wish

for some reason to honor. A bride at her first dinner in your house, after

her return from her honeymoon, takes, if you choose to have her,

precedence over older people. Or if a younger woman has been long away

she, in this instance of welcoming her home, takes precedence over her

elders. The guest of honor is always led in to dinner by the host and

placed on his right, the second in importance sits on his left and is

taken in to dinner by the gentleman on whose right she sits. The hostess

is always the last to go into the dining-room at a formal dinner.

=THE ENVELOPES FOR THE GENTLEMEN=

In an envelope addressed to each gentleman is put a card on which is

written the name of the lady he is to take down to dinner. This card just

fits in the envelope, which is an inch or slightly less high and about two

inches long. When the envelopes are addressed and filled, they are

arranged in two neat rows on a silver tray and put in the front hall. The

tray is presented to each gentleman just before he goes into the

drawing-room, on his arrival.

=THE TABLE DIAGRAM=

A frame made of leather, round or rectangular, with small openings at

regular intervals around the edge in which names written on cards can be

slipped, shows the seating of the table at a glance. In a frame holding

twenty-four cards, twelve guests would be indicated by leaving every other

card place blank, or for eight, only one in three is filled. This diagram

is shown to each gentleman upon his arrival, so that he can see who is

coming for dinner and where he himself is placed. At a dinner of ten or

less this diagram is especially convenient as "envelopes" are used only at

formal dinners of twelve and over.

=WHEN THE HOSTESS SITS AT THE SIDE=

When the number of guests is a multiple of four, the host and hostess

never sit opposite each other. It would bring two ladies and two gentlemen

together if they did. At a table which seats two together at each end, the

fact that the host is opposite a gentleman and the hostess opposite a lady

is not noticeable; nor is it ever noticeable at a round table. But at a

narrow table which has room for only one at the end, the hostess

invariably sits in the seat next to that which is properly her own,

putting in her place a gentleman at the end. The host usually keeps his

seat rather than the hostess because the seat of honor is on his right;

and in the etiquette governing dinners, the host and not the hostess is

the more important personage!

When there are only four, they keep their own places, otherwise the host

and hostess would sit next to each other. At a dinner of eight, twelve,

sixteen, twenty, etc., the host keeps his place, but at supper for eight

or twelve, the hostess keeps _her_ place and the host moves a place to the

right or left because the hostess at supper pours coffee or chocolate. And

although the host keeps his seat at a formal dinner in honor of the lady

he takes in, at a little dinner of eight, where there is no guest of

honor, the host does not necessarily keep his seat at the expense of his

wife unless he carves, in which case he must have the end place; just as

at supper she has the end place in order to pour.

=SIDEWALK, HALL, AND DRESSING ROOMS=

One can be pretty sure on seeing a red velvet carpet spread down the steps

of a house (or up! since there are so many sunken American basement

entrances) that there are people for dinner. The carpet is kept rolled, or

turned under near the foot (or top) of the steps until a few minutes

before the dinner hour when it is spread across the width of the pavement

by the chauffeur or whoever is on duty on the sidewalk. Very big or formal

dinners often have an awning, especially at a house where there is much

entertaining and which has an awning of its own; but at an ordinary house,

for a dinner of twelve or so, the man on the pavement must, if it is

raining, shelter each arriving guest under his coachman's umbrella from

carriage to door. If it does not rain, he merely opens the doors of

vehicles. Checks are never given at dinners, no matter how big; every

motor is called by address at the end of the evening. The Worldly car is

not shouted for as "Worldly!" but "xox Fifth Avenue!" The typical coachman

of another day used to tell you "carriages are ordered for ten-fifteen."

Carriages were nearly always ordered for that hour, though with slow and

long dinners no one ever actually left until the horses had exercised for

at least an hour! But the chauffeur of to-day opens the door in

silence--unless there is to be a concert or amateur theatricals, when he,

like the coachman says, "Motors are ordered for twelve o'clock," or

whatever hour he is told to say.

In this day of telephone and indefinite bridge games, many people prefer

to have their cars telephoned for, when they are ready to go home. Those

who do not play bridge leave an eight o'clock dinner about half past ten,

or at least order their cars for that hour.

In all modern houses of size there are two rooms on the entrance floor,

built sometimes as dressing-rooms and nothing else, but more often they

are small reception rooms, each with a lavatory off of it. In the one

given to the ladies, there is always a dressing-table with toilet

appointments on it, and the lady's maid should be on duty to give whatever

service may be required; when there is no dressing-room on the ground

floor, the back of the hall is arranged with coat-hangers and an

improvised dressing-table for the ladies, since modern people--in New York

at least--never go up-stairs to a bedroom if they can help it. In fact,

nine ladies out of ten drop their evening cloaks at the front door,

handing them to the servant on duty, and go at once without more ado to

the drawing-room. A lady arriving in her own closed car can't be very much

blown about, in a completely air tight compartment and in two or three

minutes of time!

Gentlemen also leave their hats and coats in the front part of the hail. A

servant presents to each a tray of envelopes, and if there is one, the

table diagram. Envelopes are not really necessary when there is a table

diagram, since every gentleman knows that he "takes in" the lady placed on

his right! But at very big dinners in New York or Washington, where many

people are sure to be strangers to one another, an absent-minded gentleman

might better, perhaps, have his partner's name safely in his pocket.

=ANNOUNCING GUESTS=

A gentleman always falls behind his wife in entering the drawing-room. If

the butler knows the guests, he merely announces the wife's name first and

then the husband's. If he does not know them by sight he asks whichever is

nearest to him, "What name, please?" And whichever one is asked, answers:

"Mr. and Mrs. Lake."

The butler then precedes the guests a few steps into the room where the

hostess is stationed, and standing aside says in a low tone but very

distinctly: "Mrs. Lake," a pause and then, "Mr. Lake." Married people are

usually announced separately as above, but occasionally people have their

guests announced "Mr. and Mrs. ----."

=ANNOUNCING PERSONS OF RANK=

All men of high executive rank are not alone announced first, but take

precedence of their wives in entering the room. The President of the

United States is announced simply, "The President and Mrs. Harding." His

title needs no qualifying appendage, since he and he solely, is _the_

President. He enters first, and alone, of course; and then Mrs. Harding

follows. The same form precisely is used for "The Vice-President and Mrs.

Coolidge." A governor is sometimes in courtesy called "Excellency" but the

correct announcement would be "the Governor of New Jersey and Mrs.

Edwards." He enters the room and Mrs. Edwards follows. "The Mayor and Mrs.

Thompson" observe the same etiquette; or in a city other than his own he

would be announced "The Mayor of Chicago and Mrs. Thompson."

Other announcements are "The Chief Justice and Mrs. Taft," "The Secretary

of State and Mrs. Hughes." "Senator and Mrs. Washington," but in this case

the latter enters the room first, because his office is not executive.

According to diplomatic etiquette an Ambassador and his wife should be

announced, "Their Excellencies the Ambassador and Ambassadress of Great

Britain." The Ambassador enters the room first. A Minister

Plenipotentiary is announced "The Minister of Sweden." He enters a moment

later and "Mrs. Ogren" follows. But a First Secretary and his wife are

announced, if they have a title of their own, "Count and Countess

European," or "Mr. and Mrs. American."

The President, the Vice-President, the Governor of a State, the Mayor of a

city, the Ambassador of a foreign Power--in other words, all

executives--take precedence over their wives and enter rooms and vehicles

first. But Senators, Representatives, Secretaries of legations and all

other officials who are not executive, allow their wives to precede them,

just as they would if they were private individuals.

Foreigners who have hereditary titles are announced by them: "The Duke and

Duchess of Overthere." "The Marquis and Marchioness of Landsend," or "Sir

Edward and Lady Blank," etc. Titles are invariably translated into

English, "Count and Countess Lorraine," not "M. le Comte et Mme. la

Comtesse Lorraine."

=HOW A HOSTESS RECEIVES AT A FORMAL DINNER=

On all occasions of formality, at a dinner as well as at a ball, the

hostess stands near the door of her drawing-room, and as guests are

announced, she greets them with a smile and a handshake and says something

pleasant to each. What she says is nothing very important, charm of

expression and of manner can often wordlessly express a far more gracious

welcome than the most elaborate phrases (which as a matter of fact should

be studiously avoided). Unless a woman's loveliness springs from

generosity of heart and sympathy, her manners, no matter how perfectly

practised, are nothing but cosmetics applied to hide a want of inner

beauty; precisely as rouge and powder are applied in the hope of hiding

the lack of a beautiful skin. One device is about as successful as the

other; quite pleasing unless brought into comparison with the real.

Mrs. Oldname, for instance, usually welcomes you with some such sentences

as, "I am very glad to see you" or "I am so glad you could come!" Or if it

is raining, she very likely tells you that you were very unselfish to

come out in the storm. But no matter what she says or whether anything at

all, she takes your hand with a firm pressure and her smile is really a

_smile_ of welcome, not a mechanical exercise of the facial muscles. She

gives you always--even if only for the moment--her complete attention; and

you go into her drawing-room with a distinct feeling that you are under

the roof, not of a mere acquaintance, but of a friend. Mr. Oldname who

stands never very far from his wife, always comes forward and, grasping

your hand, accentuates his wife's more subtle but no less vivid welcome.

And either you join a friend standing near, or he presents you, if you are

a man, to a lady; or if you are a lady, he presents a man to you.

Some hostesses, especially those of the Lion-Hunting and the

New-to-Best-Society variety are much given to explanations, and love to

say "Mrs. Jones, I want you to meet Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith is the author

of 'Dragged from the Depths,' a most enlightening work of psychic

insight." Or to a good-looking woman, "I am putting you next to the

Assyrian Ambassador--I want him to carry back a flattering impression of

American women!"

But people of good breeding do not over-exploit their distinguished guests

with embarrassing hyperbole, or make personal remarks. Both are in worst

possible taste. Do not understand by this that explanations can not be

made; it is only that they must not be embarrassingly made to their faces.

Nor must a "specialist's" subject be forced upon him, like a pair of

manacles, by any exploiting hostess who has captured him. Mrs. Oldname

might perhaps, in order to assist conversation for an interesting but

reticent person, tell a lady just before going in to dinner, "Mr. Traveler

who is sitting next to you at the table, has just come back from two years

alone with the cannibals." This is not to exploit her "Traveled Lion" but

to give his neighbor a starting point for conversation at table. And

although personal remarks are never good form, it would be permissible for

an older lady in welcoming a very young one, especially a débutante or a

bride, to say, "How lovely you look, Mary dear, and what an adorable

dress you have on!"

But to say to an older lady, "That is a very handsome string of pearls you

are wearing," would be objectionable.

=THE DUTY OF THE HOST=

The host stands fairly near his wife so that if any guest seems to be

unknown to all of the others, he can present him to some one. At formal

dinners introductions are never general and people do not as a rule speak

to strangers, except those next to them at table or in the drawing-room

after dinner. The host therefore makes a few introductions if necessary.

Before dinner, since the hostess is standing (and no gentleman may

therefore sit down) and as it is awkward for a lady who is sitting, to

talk with a gentleman who is standing, the ladies usually also stand until

dinner is announced.

=WHEN DINNER IS ANNOUNCED=

It is the duty of the butler to "count heads" so that he may know when the

company has arrived. As soon as he has announced the last person, he

notifies the cook. The cook being ready, the butler, having glanced into

the dining-room to see that windows have been closed and the candles on

the table lighted, enters the drawing-room, approaches the hostess, bows,

and says quietly, "Dinner is served."

The host offers his arm to the lady of honor and leads the way to the

dining-room. All the other gentlemen offer their arms to the ladies

appointed to them, and follow the host, in an orderly procession, two and

two; the only order of precedence is that the host and his partner lead,

while the hostess and her partner come last. At all formal dinners, place

cards being on the table, the hostess does not direct people where to sit.

If there was no table diagram in the hall, the butler, standing just

within the dining-room door, tells each gentleman as he approaches "Right"

or "Left."

"R" or "L" is occasionally written on the lady's name card in the

envelopes given to the gentlemen, or if it is such a big dinner that there

are many separate tables, the tables are numbered with standing placards

(as at a public dinner) and the table number written on each lady's name

card.

=THE MANNERS OF A HOSTESS=

First of all, a hostess must show each of her guests equal and impartial

attention. Also, although engrossed in the person she is talking to, she

must be able to notice anything amiss that may occur. The more competent

her servants, the less she need be aware of details herself, but the

hostess giving a formal dinner with uncertain dining-room efficiency has a

far from smooth path before her. No matter what happens, if all the china

in the pantry falls with a crash, she must not appear to have heard it. No

matter what goes wrong she must cover it as best she may, and at the same

time cover the fact that she is covering it. To give hectic directions,

merely accentuates the awkwardness. If a dish appears that is

unpresentable, she as quietly as possible orders the next one to be

brought in. If a guest knocks over a glass and breaks it, even though the

glass be a piece of genuine Steigel, her only concern must seemingly be

that her guest's place has been made uncomfortable. She says, "I am so

sorry, but I will have it fixed at once!" The broken glass is _nothing!_

And she has a fresh glass brought (even though it doesn't match) and

dismisses all thought of the matter.

Both the host and hostess must keep the conversation going, if it lags,

but this is not as definitely their duty at a formal, as at an informal

dinner It is at the small dinner that the skilful hostess has need of what

Thackeray calls the "showman" quality. She brings each guest forward in

turn to the center of the stage. In a lull in the conversation she says

beguilingly to a clever but shy man, "John, what was that story you told

me----" and then she repeats briefly an introduction to a topic in which

"John" particularly shines. Or later on, she begins a narrative and

breaks off suddenly, turning to some one else, "_You_ tell them!"

These examples are rather bald, and overemphasize the method in order to

make it clear. Practise and the knowledge of human nature, or of the

particular temperament with which she is trying to deal, can alone tell

her when she may lead or provoke this or that one to being at his best, to

his own satisfaction as well as that of the others who may be present. Her

own character and sympathy are the only real "showman" assets, since no

one "shows" to advantage except in a congenial environment.

=THE LATE GUEST=

A polite hostess waits twenty minutes after the dinner hour, and then

orders dinner served. To wait more than twenty minutes, or actually

fifteen after those who took the allowable five minutes grace, would be

showing lack of consideration to many for the sake of one. When the late

guest finally enters the dining-room, the hostess rises, shakes hands with

her, but does not leave her place at table. She doesn't rise for a

gentleman. It is the guest who must go up to the hostess and apologize for

being late. The hostess must never take the guest to task, but should say

something polite and conciliatory such as, "I was sure you would not want

us to wait dinner!" The newcomer is usually served with dinner from the

beginning unless she is considerate enough to say to the butler, "Just let

me begin with this course."

Old Mrs. Toplofty's manners to late guests are an exception: on the last

stroke of eight o'clock in winter and half after eight in Newport, dinner

is announced. She waits for no one! Furthermore, a guest arriving after a

course has been served, does not have to protest against disarranging the

order of dinner since the rule of the house is that a course which has

passed a chair is not to be returned. A guest missing his "turn" misses

that course. The result is that everyone dining with Mrs. Toplofty arrives

on the stroke of the dinner hour; which is also rather necessary, as she

is one of those who like the service to be rushed through at top speed,

and anyone arriving half an hour late would find dinner over.

It would be excellent discipline if there were more hostesses like her,

but no young woman could be so autocratic and few older ones care (or

dare) to be. Nothing shows selfish want of consideration more than being

habitually late for dinner. Not only are others, who were themselves

considerate, kept waiting, but dinner is dried and ruined for everyone

else through the fault of the tardy one. And though expert cooks know how

to keep food from becoming uneatable, no food can be so good as at the

moment for which it is prepared, and the habitually late guest should be

made to realize how unfairly she is meeting her hostess' generosity by

destroying for every one the hospitality which she was invited to share.

On the other hand, before a formal dinner, it is the duty of the hostess

to be dressed and in her drawing-room fifteen, or ten minutes at least,

before the hour set for dinner. For a very informal dinner it is not

important to be ready ahead of time, but even then a late hostess is an

inconsiderate one.

=ETIQUETTE OF GLOVES AND NAPKIN=

Ladies always wear gloves to formal dinners and take them off at table.

Entirely off. It is hideous to leave them on the arm, merely turning back

the hands. Both gloves and fan are supposed to be laid across the lap, and

one is supposed to lay the napkin folded once in half across the lap too,

on top of the gloves and fan, and all three are supposed to stay in place

on a slippery satin skirt on a little lap, that more often than not slants

downward.

It is all very well for etiquette to say "They stay there," but every

woman knows they don't! And this is quite a nice question: If you obey

etiquette and lay the napkin on top of the fan and gloves loosely across

your satin-covered knees, it will depend merely upon the heaviness and

position of the fan's handle whether the avalanche starts right, left or

forward, onto the floor. There is just _one_ way to keep these four

articles (including the lap as one) from disintegrating, which is to put

the napkin cornerwise across your knees and tuck the two side corners

under like a lap robe, with the gloves and the fan tied in place as it

were. This ought not to be put in a book of etiquette, which should say

you must do nothing of the kind, but it is either do that or have the

gentleman next you groping under the table at the end of the meal; and it

is impossible to imagine that etiquette should wish to conserve the

picture of "gentlemen on all fours" as the concluding ceremonial at

dinners.

=THE TURNING OF THE TABLE=

The turning of the table is accomplished by the hostess, who merely turns

from the gentleman (on her left probably) with whom she has been talking

through the soup and the fish course, to the one on her right. As she

turns, the lady to whom the "right" gentleman has been talking, turns to

the gentleman further on, and in a moment everyone at table is talking to

a new neighbor. Sometimes a single couple who have become very much

engrossed, refuse to change partners and the whole table is blocked;

leaving one lady and one gentleman on either side of the block, staring

alone at their plates. At this point the hostess has to come to the rescue

by attracting the blocking lady's attention and saying, "Sally, you cannot

talk to Professor Bugge any longer! Mr. Smith has been trying his best to

attract your attention."

"Sally" being in this way brought awake, is obliged to pay attention to

Mr. Smith, and Professor Bugge, little as he may feel inclined, must turn

his attention to the other side. To persist in carrying on their own

conversation at the expense of others, would be inexcusably rude, not only

to their hostess but to every one present.

At a dinner not long ago, Mr. Kindhart sitting next to Mrs. Wellborn and

left to himself because of the assiduity of the lady's farther partner,

slid his own name-card across and in front of her, to bring her attention

to the fact that it was "his turn."

=ENEMIES MUST BURY HATCHETS=

One inexorable rule of etiquette is that you must talk to your next door

neighbor at a dinner table. You _must_, that is all there is about it!

Even if you are placed next to some one with whom you have had a bitter

quarrel, consideration for your hostess, who would be distressed if she

knew you had been put in a disagreeable place, and further consideration

for the rest of the table which is otherwise "blocked," exacts that you

give no outward sign of your repugnance and that you make a pretence at

least for a little while, of talking together.

At dinner once, Mrs. Toplofty, finding herself next to a man she quite

openly despised, said to him with apparent placidity, "I shall not talk to

you--because I don't care to. But for the sake of my hostess I shall say

my multiplication tables. Twice one are two, twice two are four ----" and she

continued on through the tables, making him alternate them with her. As

soon as she politely could she turned again to her other companion.

=MANNERS AT TABLE=

It used to be an offense, and it still is considered impolite, to refuse

dishes at the table, because your refusal implies that you do not like

what is offered you. If this is true, you should be doubly careful to take

at least a little on your plate and make a pretence of eating some of it,

since to refuse course after course can not fail to distress your hostess.

If you are "on a diet" and accepted the invitation with that stipulation,

your not eating is excusable; but even then to sit with an empty plate in

front of you throughout a meal makes you a seemingly reproachful table

companion for those of good appetite sitting next to you.

=ATTACKING A COMPLICATED DISH=

When a dinner has been prepared by a chef who prides himself on being a

decorative artist, the guest of honor and whoever else may be the first to

be served have quite a problem to know which part of an intricate

structure is to be eaten, and which part is scenic effect!

The main portion is generally clear enough; the uncertainty is in whether

the flowers are eatable vegetables and whether the things that look like

ducks are potatoes, or trimming. If there are six or more, the chances are

they are edible, and that one or two of a kind are embellishments only.

Rings around food are nearly always to be eaten; platforms under food

seldom, if ever, are. Anything that looks like pastry is to be eaten; and

anything divided into separate units should be taken on your plate

complete. You should not try to cut a section from anything that has

already been divided into portions in the kitchen. Aspics and desserts

are, it must be said, occasionally Chinese puzzles, but if you do help

yourself to part of the decoration, no great harm is done.

Dishes are _never_ passed from hand to hand at a dinner, not even at the

smallest and most informal one. Sometimes people pass salted nuts to each

other, or an extra sweet from a dish near by, but not circling the table.

=LEAVING THE TABLE=

At the end of dinner, when the last dish of chocolates has been passed and

the hostess sees that no one is any longer eating, she looks across the

table, and catching the eye of one of the ladies, slowly stands up. The

one who happens to be observing also stands up, and in a moment everyone

is standing. The gentlemen offer their arms to their partners and conduct

them back to the drawing-room or the library or wherever they are to sit

during the rest of the evening.

Each gentleman then slightly bows, takes leave of his partner, and

adjourns with the other gentlemen to the smoking-room, where after-dinner

coffee, liqueurs, cigars and cigarettes are passed, and they all sit where

they like and with whom they like, and talk.

It is perfectly correct for a gentleman to talk to any other who happens

to be sitting near him, whether he knows him or not. The host on

occasions--but it is rarely necessary--starts the conversation if most of

the guests are inclined to keep silent, by drawing this one or that into

discussion of a general topic that everyone is likely to take part in. At

the end of twenty minutes or so, he must take the opportunity of the first

lull in the conversation to suggest that they join the ladies in the

drawing-room.

In a house where there is no smoking-room, the gentlemen do not conduct

the ladies to the drawing-room, but stay where they are (the ladies

leaving alone) and have their coffee, cigars, liqueurs and conversation

sitting around the table.

In the drawing-room, meanwhile, the ladies are having coffee, cigarettes,

and liqueurs passed to them. There is not a modern New York hostess,

scarcely even an old-fashioned one, who does not have cigarettes passed

after dinner.

At a dinner of ten or twelve, the five or six ladies are apt to sit in one

group, or possibly two sit by themselves, and three of four together, but

at a very large dinner they inevitably fall into groups of four or five or

so each. In any case, the hostess must see that no one is left to sit

alone. If one of her guests is a stranger to the others, the hostess draws

a chair near one of the groups and offering it to her single guest sits

beside her. After a while when this particular guest has at least joined

the outskirts of the conversation of the group, the hostess leaves her and

joins another group where perhaps she sits beside some one else who has

been somewhat left out. When there is no one who needs any especial

attention, the hostess nevertheless sits for a time with each of the

different groups in order to spend at least a part of the evening with all

of her guests.

=WHEN THE GENTLEMEN RETURN TO THE DRAWING-ROOM=

When the gentlemen return to the drawing-room, if there is a particular

lady that one of them wants to talk to, he naturally goes directly to

where she is, and sits down beside her. If, however, she is securely

wedged in between two other ladies, he must ask her to join him elsewhere.

Supposing Mr. Jones, for instance, wants to talk to Mrs. Bobo Gilding, who

is sitting between Mrs. Stranger and Miss Stiffleigh: Mr. Jones saunters

up to Mrs. Gilding--he must not look too eager or seem too directly to

prefer her to the two who are flanking her position, so he says rather

casually, "Will you come and talk to me?" Whereupon she leaves her

sandwiched position and goes over to another part of the room, and sits

down where there is a vacant seat beside her. Usually, however, the ladies

on the ends, being accessible, are more apt to be joined by the first

gentleman entering than is the one in the center, whom it is impossible to

reach. Etiquette has always decreed that gentlemen should not continue to

talk together after leaving the smoking-room, as it is not courteous to

those of the ladies who are necessarily left without partners.

At informal dinners, and even at many formal ones, bridge tables are set

up in an adjoining room, if not in the drawing-room. Those few who do not

play bridge spend a half hour (or less) in conversation and then go home,

unless there is some special diversion.

=MUSIC OR OTHER ENTERTAINMENT AFTER DINNER=

Very large dinners of fifty or over are almost invariably followed by some

sort of entertainment. Either the dinner is given before a ball or a

musicale or amateur theatricals, or professionals are brought in to dance

or sing.

In this day when conversation is not so much a "lost" as a "wilfully

abandoned" art, people in numbers can not be left to spend an evening on

nothing but conversation. Grouped together by the hundred and with bridge

tables absent, the modern fashionables in America, and in England, too,

are as helpless as children at a party without something for them to do,

listen to, or look at!

=VERY BIG DINNERS=

A dinner of sixty, for instance, is always served at separate tables; a

center one of twenty people, and four corner tables of ten each. Or if

less, a center table of twelve and four smaller tables of eight. A dinner

of thirty-six or less is seated at a single table.

But whether there are eighteen, eighty, or one or two hundred, the setting

of each individual table and the service is precisely the same. Each one

is set with centerpiece, candles, compotiers, and evenly spaced plates,

with the addition of a number by which to identify it; or else each table

is decorated with different colored flowers, pink, yellow, orchid, white.

Whatever the manner of identification, the number or the color is written

in the corner of the ladies' name cards that go in the envelopes handed to

each arriving gentleman at the door: "pink," "yellow," "orchid," "white,"

or "center table."

In arranging for the service of dinner the butler details three footmen,

usually, to each table of ten, and six footmen to the center table of

twenty. There are several houses (palaces really) in New York that have

dining-rooms big enough to seat a hundred or more easily. But sixty is a

very big dinner, and even thirty does not "go" well without an

entertainment following it.

Otherwise the details are the same in every particular as well as in table

setting: the hostess receives at the door; guests stand until dinner is

announced; the host leads the way with the guest of honor. The hostess

goes to table last. The host and hostess always sit at the big center

table and the others at that table are invariably the oldest present. No

one resents being grouped according to "age," but many do resent a

segregation of ultra fashionables. You must never put all the prominent

ones at one table, unless you want forever to lose the acquaintance of

those at every other.

After dinner, the gentlemen go to the smoking-room and the ladies sit in

the ballroom, where, if there is to be a theatrical performance, the stage

is probably arranged. The gentlemen return, the guests take their places,

and the performance begins. After the performance the leave-taking is the

same as at all dinners or parties.

=TAKING LEAVE=

That the guest of honor must be first to take leave was in former times so

fixed a rule that everyone used to sit on and on, no matter how late it

became, waiting for her whose duty it was, to go! More often than not, the

guest of honor was an absent-minded old lady, or celebrity, who very

likely was vaguely saying to herself, "Oh, my! are these people never

going home?" until by and by it dawned upon her that the obligation was

her own!

But to-day, although it is still the obligation of the guest who sat on

the host's right to make the move to go, it is not considered

ill-mannered, if the hour is growing late, for another lady to rise first.

In fact, unless the guest of honor is one _really_, meaning a stranger or

an elderly lady of distinction, there is no actual precedence in being the

one first to go. If the hour is very early when the first lady rises, the

hostess, who always rises too, very likely says: "I hope you are not

thinking of going!"

The guest answers, "We don't want to in the least, but Dick has to be at

the office so early!" or "I'm sorry, but I must. Thank you so much for

asking us."

Usually, however, each one merely says, "Good night, thank you so much."

The hostess answers, "I am so glad you could come!" and she then presses a

bell (not one that any guest can hear!) for the servants to be in the

dressing-rooms and hall. When one guest leaves, they all leave--except

those at the bridge tables. They all say, "Good night" to whomever they

were talking with and shake hands, and then going up to their hostess,

they shake hands and say, "Thank you for asking us," or "Thank you so

much."

"Thank you so much; good night," is the usual expression. And the hostess

answers, "It was so nice to see you again," or "I'm glad you could come."

But most usually of all she says merely, "Good night!" and suggests

friendliness by the tone in which she says it--an accent slightly more on

the "good" perhaps than on the "night."

In the dressing-room, or in the hall, the maid is waiting to help the

ladies on with their wraps, and the butler is at the door. When Mr. and

Mrs. Jones are ready to leave, he goes out on the front steps and calls,

"Mr. Jones' car!" The Jones' chauffeur answers, "Here," the butler says to

either Mr. or Mrs. Jones, "Your car is at the door!" and they go out.

The bridge people leave as they finish their games; sometimes a table at a

time or most likely two together. (Husbands and wives are never, if it

can be avoided, put at the same table.) Young people in saying good night

say, "Good night, it has been too wonderful!" or "Good night, and thank

you _so_ much." And the hostess smiles and says, "So glad you could come!"

or just "Good night!"

=THE LITTLE DINNER=

The little dinner is thought by most people to be the very pleasantest

social function there is. It is always informal, of course, and intimate

conversation is possible, since strangers are seldom, or at least very

carefully, included. For younger people, or others who do not find great

satisfaction in conversation, the dinner of eight and two tables of bridge

afterwards has no rival in popularity. The formal dinner is liked by most

people now and then (and for those who don't especially like it, it is at

least salutary as a spine stiffening exercise), but for night after night,

season after season, the little dinner is to social activity what the

roast course is to the meal.

The service of a "little" dinner is the same as that of a big one. As has

been said, proper service in properly run houses is never relaxed, whether

dinner is for eighteen or for two alone. The table appointments are

equally fine and beautiful, though possibly not quite so rare. Really

priceless old glass and china can't be replaced because duplicates do not

exist and to use it three times a day would be to court destruction;

replicas, however, are scarcely less beautiful and can be replaced if

chipped. The silver is identical; the food is equally well prepared,

though a course or two is eliminated; the service is precisely the same.

The clothes that fashionable people wear every evening they are home

alone, are, if not the same, at least as beautiful of their kind. Young

Gilding's lounge suit is quite as "handsome" as his dinner clothes, and he

tubs and shaves and changes his linen when he puts it on. His wife wears a

tea gown, which is classified as a negligé rather in irony, since it is

apt to be more elaborate and gorgeous (to say nothing of dignified) than

half of the garments that masquerade these days as evening dresses! They

wear these informal clothes only if very intimate friends are coming to

dinner alone. "Alone" may include as many as eight!--but never includes a

stranger.

[Illustration: A DINNER SERVICE WITHOUT SILVER--"THE LITTLE DINNER IS

THOUGHT BY MOST PEOPLE TO BE THE VERY PLEASANTEST SOCIAL FUNCTION THERE

IS." [Page 228.]]

Otherwise, at informal dinners, the host wears a dinner coat and the

hostess a simple evening dress, or perhaps an elaborate one that has been

seen by everyone and which goes on at little dinners for the sake of

getting some "wear out of it." She never, however, receives formally

standing, though she rises when a guest comes into the room, shakes hands

and sits down again. When dinner is announced, gentlemen do not offer

their arms to the ladies. The hostess and the other ladies go into the

dining-room together, not in a procession, but just as they happen to

come. If one of them is much older than the others, the younger ones wait

for her to go ahead of them, or one who is much younger goes last. The men

stroll in the rear. The hostess on reaching the dining-room goes to her

own place where she stands and tells everyone where she or he is to sit.

"Mary, will you sit next to Jim, and Lucy on his other side; Kate, over

there, Bobo, next to me," etc.

=CARVING ON THE TABLE=

Carving is sometimes seen at "home" dinner tables. A certain type of man

always likes to carve, and such a one does. But in forty-nine houses out

of fifty, in New York at least, the carving is done by the cook in the

kitchen--a roast while it is still in the roasting pan, and close to the

range at that, so that nothing can possibly get cooled off in the carving.

After which the pieces are carefully put together again, and transferred

to an intensely hot platter. This method has two advantages over table

carving; quicker service, and hotter food. Unless a change takes place in

the present fashion, none except cooks will know anything about carving,

which was once considered an art necessary to every gentleman. The boast

of the high-born Southerner, that he could carve a canvas-back holding it

on his fork, will be as unknown as the driving of a four-in-hand.

Old-fashioned butlers sometimes carve in the pantry, but in the most

modern service all carving is done by the cook. Cold meats are, in the

English service, put whole on the sideboard and the family and guests cut

off what they choose themselves. In America cold meat is more often sliced

and laid on a platter garnished with finely chopped meat jelly and water

cress or parsley.

=THE "STAG" OR "BACHELOR" DINNER=

A man's dinner is sometimes called a "stag" or a "bachelor" dinner; and as

its name implies, is a dinner given by a man and for men only. A man's

dinner is usually given to celebrate an occasion of welcome or farewell.

The best-known bachelor dinner is the one given by the groom just before

his wedding. Other dinners are more apt to be given by one man (or a group

of men) in honor of a noted citizen who has returned from a long absence,

or who is about to embark on an expedition or a foreign mission. Or a

young man may give a dinner in honor of a friend's twenty-first birthday;

or an older man may give a dinner merely because he has a quantity of game

which he has shot and wants to share with his especial friends.

Nearly always a man's dinner is given at the host's club or his bachelor

quarters or in a private room in a hotel. But if a man chooses to give a

stag dinner in his own house, his wife (or his mother) should not appear.

For a wife to come downstairs and receive the guests for him, can not be

too strongly condemned as out of place. Such a maneuver on her part,

instead of impressing his guests with her own grace and beauty, is far

more likely to make them think what a "poor worm" her husband must be, to

allow himself to be hen-pecked. And for a mother to appear at a son's

dinner is, if anything, worse. An essential piece of advice to every woman

is: No matter how much you may want to say "How do you do" to your

husband's or your son's friends--_don't!_