To be acquainted with every detail of the etiquette pertaining to this
subject is of the highest importance to every gentleman. Ease, _savoir
faire_, and good breeding are nowhere more indispensable than at the
dinner-table, and the absence of them are nowhere more apparent.
How to eat soup and what to do with a cherry-stone are weighty
considerations when taken as the index of social status; and it is not
too much to say, that a man who elected to take claret with his fish,
or ate peas with his knife, would justly risk the punishment of
being banished from good society. As this subject is one of the
most important of which we have to treat, we may be pardoned for
introducing an appropriate anecdote related by the French poet
Delille:--
Delille and Marmontel were dining together in the month of April,
1786, and the conversation happened to turn upon dinner-table customs.
Marmontel observed how many little things a well-bred man was obliged
to know, if he would avoid being ridiculous at the tables of his
friends.
"They are, indeed, innumerable," said Delille; "and the most annoying
fact of all is, that not all the wit and good sense in the world can
help one to divine them untaught. A little while ago, for instance,
the Abbé Cosson, who is Professor of Literature at the Collège
Mazarin, was describing to me a grand dinner to which he had been
invited at Versailles, and to which he had sat down in the company of
peers, princes, and marshals of France.
"'I'll wager, now,' said I, 'that you committed a hundred blunders in
the etiquette of the table!'
"'How so?' replied the Abbé, somewhat nettled. 'What blunders could I
make? It seems to me that I did precisely as others did.'
"'And I, on the contrary, would stake my life that you did nothing as
others did. But let us begin at the beginning, and see which is right.
In the first place there was your table-napkin--what did you do with
that when you sat down at table?'
"'What did I do with my table-napkin? Why, I did like the rest of the
guests: I shook it out of the folds, spread it before me, and fastened
one corner to my button-hole.'
"'Very well, _mon cher_; you were the only person who did so. No one
shakes, spreads, and fastens a table-napkin in that manner. You should
have only laid it across your knees. What soup had you?'
"'Turtle.'
"'And how did you eat it?'
"'Like every one else, I suppose. I took my spoon in one hand, and my
fork in the other--'
"'Your fork! Good heavens! None but a savage eats soup with a fork.
But go on. What did you take next?'
"'A boiled egg.'
"'Good and what did you do with the shell?'
"'Not eat it certainly. I left it, of course, in the egg-cup.'
"'Without breaking it through with your spoon?'
"'Without breaking it.'
"'Then, my dear fellow, permit me to tell you that no one eats an egg
without breaking the shell and leaving the spoon standing in it. And
after your egg?'
"'I asked for some _bouilli_.'
"'For _boulli_! It is a term that no one uses. You should have asked
for beef--never for _boulli_. Well, and after the _bouilli_?'
"'I asked the Abbé de Radonvillais for some fowl.'
"'Wretched man! Fowl, indeed! You should have asked for chicken or
capon. The word "fowl" is never heard out of the kitchen. But all this
applies only to what you ate; tell me something of what you drank, and
how you asked for it.'
"'I asked for champagne and bordeaux from those who had the bottles
before them.'
"'Know then, my good friend, that only a waiter, who has no time or
breath to spare, asks for champagne or bordeaux. A gentleman asks for
_vin de Champagne_ and _vin de Bordeaux_. And now inform me how you
ate your bread?'
"'Undoubtedly like all the rest of the world. I cut it up into small
square pieces with my knife.'
"'Then let me tell you that no one cuts bread. You should always break
it. Let us go on to the coffee. How did you drink yours?'
"'Pshaw! At least I could make no mistake in that. It was boiling hot,
so I poured it, a little at a time, in the saucer, and drank it as it
cooled.'
"'_Eh bien_! then you assuredly acted as no other gentleman in the
room. Nothing can be more vulgar than to pour tea or coffee into a
saucer. You should have waited till it cooled, and then have drank it
from the cup. And now you see, my dear cousin, that, so far from doing
precisely as others did, you acted in no one respect according to the
laws prescribed by etiquette.'"
An invitation to dine should be replied to immediately, and
unequivocally accepted or declined. Once accepted, nothing but
an event of the last importance should cause you to fail in your
engagement.
To be exactly punctual is the strictest politeness on these occasions.
If you are too early, you are in the way; if too late, you spoil the
dinner, annoy the hostess, and are hated by the rest of the guests.
Some authorities are even of opinion that in the question of a
dinner-party "never" is better than "late;" and one author has gone
so far as to say, if you do not reach the house till dinner is served,
you had better retire to a restaurateur's, and thence send an apology,
and not interrupt the harmony of the courses by awkward excuses and
cold acceptance.
When the party is assembled, the mistress or master of the house will
point out to each gentleman the lady whom he is to conduct to table.
If she be a stranger, you had better seek an introduction; if a
previous acquaintance, take care to be near her when the dinner is
announced, offer your arm, and go down according to precedence
of rank. This order of precedence must be arranged by the host or
hostess, as the guests are probably unacquainted, and cannot know each
other's social rank.
When the society is of a distinguished kind, the host will do well to
consult Debrett or Burke, before arranging his visitors.
When rank is not in question, other claims to precedence must be
considered. The lady who is the greatest stranger should be taken
down by the master of the house, and the gentleman who is the greatest
stranger should conduct the hostess. Married ladies take precedence of
single ladies, elder ladies of younger ones, and so forth.
When dinner is announced, the host offers his arm to the lady of most
distinction, invites the rest to follow by a few words or a bow,
and leads the way. The lady of the house should then follow with the
gentleman who is most entitled to that honour, and the visitors follow
in the order that the master of the house has previously arranged. The
lady of the house frequently remains, however, till the last, that she
may see her guests go down in their prescribed order; but the plan is
not a convenient one. It is much better that the hostess should be in
her place as the guests enter the dining-room, in order that she may
indicate their seats to them as they come in, and not find them all
crowded together in uncertainty when she arrives.
The number of guests at a dinner-party should always be determined
by the size of the table. When the party is too small, conversation
flags, and a general air of desolation pervades the table. When they
are too many, every one is inconvenienced. A space of two feet should
be allowed to each person. It is well to arrange a party in such wise
that the number of ladies and gentlemen be equal.
It requires some tact to distribute your guests so that each shall
find himself with a neighbour to his taste; but as much of the success
of a dinner will always depend on this matter, it is worth some
consideration. If you have a wit, or a particularly good talker, among
your visitors, it is well to place him near the centre of the table,
where he can be heard and talked to by all. It is obviously a bad plan
to place two such persons in close proximity. They extinguish each
other. Neither is it advisable to assign two neighbouring seats to
two gentlemen of the same profession, as they are likely to fall
into exclusive conversation and amuse no one but themselves. A little
consideration of the politics, religious opinions, and tastes of his
friends, will enable a judicious host to avoid many quicksands, and
establish much pleasant intercourse on the occasion of a dinner party.
The lady of the house takes the head of the table. The gentleman who
led her down to dinner occupies the seat on her right hand, and the
gentleman next in order of precedence, that on her left. The master of
the house takes the foot of the table. The lady whom he escorted sits
on his right hand, and the lady next in order of precedence on his
left.
The gentlemen who support the lady of the house should offer to
relieve her of the duties of hostess. Many ladies are well pleased
thus to delegate the difficulties of carving, and all gentlemen
who accept invitations to dinner should be prepared to render such
assistance when called upon. To offer to carve a dish, and then
perform the office unskilfully, is an unpardonable _gaucherie_. Every
gentleman should carve, and carve well.
As soon as you are seated at table, remove your gloves, place your
table napkin across your knees, and remove the roll which you find
probably within it to the left side of your plate.
The soup should be placed on the table first. Some old-fashioned
persons still place soup and fish together; but "it is a custom more
honoured in the breach than the observance." Still more old-fashioned,
and in still worse taste is it to ask your guests if they will take
"soup or fish." They are as much separate courses as the fish and
the meat; and all experienced diners take both. In any case, it is
inhospitable to appear to force a choice upon a visitor, when that
visitor, in all probability, will prefer to take his soup first and
his fish afterwards. All well-ordered dinners begin with soup, whether
in summer or winter. The lady of the house should help it and send
it round, without asking each individual in turn. It is as much an
understood thing as the bread beside each plate, and those who do not
choose it, are always at liberty to leave it untasted.
In eating soup, remember always to take it from the side of the spoon,
and to make no sound in doing so.
If the servants do not go round with wine the gentlemen should help
the ladies and themselves to sherry or sauterne immediately after the
soup.
You should never ask for a second supply of either soup or fish; it
delays the next course, and keeps the table waiting.
Never offer to "assist" your neighbours to this or that dish. The word
is inexpressibly vulgar--all the more vulgar for its affectation
of elegance. "Shall I send you some mutton?" or "may I help you to
grouse?" is better chosen and better bred.
As a general rule, it is better not to ask your guests if they will
partake of the dishes; but to send the plates round, and let them
accept or decline them as they please. At very large dinners it is
sometimes customary to distribute little lists of the order of the
dishes at intervals along the table. It must be confessed that
this gives somewhat the air of a dinner at an hotel; but it has the
advantage of enabling the visitors to select their fare, and, as
"forewarned is forearmed," to keep a corner, as the children say, for
their favourite dishes.
If you are asked to take wine, it is polite to select the same as
that which your interlocutor is drinking. If you invite a lady to take
wine, you should ask her which she will prefer, and then take the
same yourself. Should you, however, for any reason prefer some other
vintage, you can take it by courteously requesting her permission.
As soon as you are helped, begin to eat; or, if the viands are too hot
for your palate, take up your knife and fork and appear to begin. To
wait for others is now not only old-fashioned, but ill-bred.
Never offer to pass on the plate to which you have been helped. This
is a still more vulgar piece of politeness, and belongs to the manners
of a hundred years ago. The lady of the house who sends your plate to
you is the best judge of precedence at her own table.
In helping soup, fish, or any other dish, remember that to overfill a
plate is as bad as to supply it too scantily.
Silver fish-knives will now always be met with at the best tables;
but where there are none, a piece of crust should be taken in the left
hand, and the fork in the right. There is no exception to this rule in
eating fish.
We presume it is scarcely necessary to remind the reader that he is
never, under any circumstances, to convey his knife to his mouth. Peas
are eaten with the fork; tarts, curry, and puddings of all kinds with
the spoon.
Always help fish with a fish-slice, and tart and puddings with a
spoon, or, if necessary, a spoon and fork.
Asparagus must be helped with the asparagus-tongs.
In eating asparagus, it is well to observe what others do, and act
accordingly. Some very well-bred people eat it with the fingers;
others cut off the heads, and convey them to the mouth upon the fork.
It would be difficult to say which is the more correct.
In eating stone fruit, such as cherries, damsons, &c., the same rule
had better be observed. Some put the stones out from the mouth into a
spoon, and so convey them to the plate. Others cover the lips with the
hand, drop them unseen into the palm, and so deposit them on the side
of the plate. In our own opinion, the last is the better way, as it
effectually conceals the return of the stones, which is certainly the
point of highest importance. Of one thing we may be sure, and that is,
that they must never be dropped from the mouth to the plate.
In helping sauce, always pour it on the side of the plate.
If the servants do not go round with the wine (which is by far
the best custom), the gentlemen at a dinner-table should take upon
themselves the office of helping those ladies who sit near them.
Ladies take more wine in the present day than they did fifty years
ago, and gentlemen should remember this, and offer it frequently.
Ladies cannot very well ask for wine, but they can always decline it.
At all events, they do not like to be neglected, or to see gentlemen
liberally helping themselves, without observing whether their fair
neighbours' glasses are full or empty. Young ladies seldom drink more
than three glasses of wine at dinner; but married ladies, professional
ladies, and those accustomed to society, and habits of affluence, will
habitually take five or even six, whether in their own homes or at the
tables of their friends.
The habit of taking wine with each other has almost wholly gone out
of fashion. A gentleman may ask the lady whom he conducted down to
dinner; or he may ask the lady of the house to take wine with him.
But even these last remnants of the old custom are fast falling into
disuse.
Unless you are a total abstainer, it is extremely uncivil to decline
taking wine if you are invited to do so. In accepting, you have only
to pour a little fresh wine into your glass, look at the person who
invited you, bow slightly, and take a sip from the glass.
It is particularly ill-bred to empty your glass on these occasions.
Certain wines are taken with certain dishes, by old-established
custom--as sherry, or sauterne, with soup and fish; hock and claret
with roast meat; punch with turtle; champagne with whitebait; port
with venison; port, or burgundy, with game; sparkling wines between
the roast and the confectionery; madeira with sweets; port with
cheese; and for dessert, port, tokay, madeira, sherry, and claret. Red
wines should never be iced, even in summer. Claret and burgundy should
always be slightly warmed; claret-cup and champagne-cup should, of
course, be iced.
Instead of cooling their wines in the ice-pail, some hosts have of
late years introduced clear ice upon the table, broken up in small
lumps, to be put inside the glasses. This is an innovation that cannot
be too strictly reprehended or too soon abolished. Melting ice can but
weaken the quality and flavour of the wine. Those who desire to drink
_wine and_ _water_ can asked for iced water if they choose, but it
savours too much of economy on the part of a host to insinuate the
ice inside the glasses of his guests, when the wine could be more
effectually iced outside the bottle.
A silver knife and fork should be placed to each guest at dessert.
If you are asked to prepare fruit for a lady, be careful to do so, by
means of the silver knife and fork only, and never to touch it with
your fingers.
It is wise never to partake of any dish without knowing of what
ingredients it is composed. You can always ask the servant who hands
it to you, and you thereby avoid all danger of having to commit the
impoliteness of leaving it, and showing that you do not approve of it.
Never speak while you have anything in your mouth.
Be careful never to taste soups or puddings till you are sure they
are sufficiently cool; as, by disregarding this caution, you may be
compelled to swallow what is dangerously hot, or be driven to the
unpardonable alternative of returning it to your plate.
When eating or drinking, avoid every kind of audible testimony to the
fact.
Finger-glasses, containing water slightly warmed and perfumed, are
placed to each person at dessert. In these you may dip the tips of
your fingers, wiping them afterwards on your table-napkin. If the
finger-glass and d'Oyley are placed on your dessert-plate, you should
immediately remove the d'Oyley to the left of your plate, and place
the finger-glass upon it. By these means you leave the right for the
wine-glasses.
Be careful to know the shapes of the various kinds of wine-glasses
commonly in use, in order that you may never put forward one for
another. High and narrow, and very broad and shallow glasses, are used
for champagne; large, goblet-shaped glasses for burgundy and claret;
ordinary wine-glasses for sherry and madeira; green glasses for hock;
and somewhat large, bell-shaped glasses, for port.
Port, sherry, and madeira, are decanted. Hocks and champagnes appear
in their native bottles. Claret and burgundy are handed round in a
claret-jug.
Coffee and liqueurs should be handed round when the dessert has
been about a quarter of an hour on the table. After this, the ladies
generally retire.
Should no servant be present to do so, the gentleman who is nearest
the door should hold it for the ladies to pass through.
When the ladies leave the dining-room, the gentlemen all rise in their
places, and do not resume their seats till the last lady is gone.
The servants leave the room when the dessert is on the table.
If you should unfortunately overturn or break anything, do not
apologize for it. You can show your regret in your face, but it is not
well-bred to put it into words.
Should you injure a lady's dress, apologise amply, and assist her, if
possible, to remove all traces of the damage.
To abstain from taking the last piece on the dish, or the last glass
of wine in the decanter, only because it is the last, is highly
ill-bred. It implies a fear that the vacancy cannot be supplied, and
almost conveys an affront to your host.
In summing up the little duties and laws of the table, a popular
author has said that--"The chief matter of consideration at
the dinner-table--as, indeed, everywhere else in the life of a
gentleman--is to be perfectly composed and at his ease. He speaks
deliberately; he performs the most important act of the day as if
he were performing the most ordinary. Yet there is no appearance of
trifling or want of gravity in his manner; he maintains the dignity
which is so becoming on so vital an occasion. He performs all the
ceremonies, yet in the style of one who performs no ceremonies at all.
He goes through all the complicated duties of the scene as if he were
'to the manner born.'"
To the giver of a dinner we have but one or two remarks to offer. If
he be a bachelor, he had better give his dinner at a good hotel, or
have it sent in from Birch's or Kühn's. If a married man, he will, we
presume, enter into council with his wife and his cook. In any
case, however, he should always bear in mind that it is his duty to
entertain his friends in the best manner that his means permit;
and that this is the least he can do to recompense them for the
expenditure of time and money which they incur in accepting his
invitation.
"To invite a friend to dinner," says Brillat Savarin, "is to become
responsible for his happiness so long as he is under your roof."
Again:--"He who receives friends at his table, without having bestowed his
personal supervision upon the repast placed before them, is unworthy
to have friends."
A dinner, to be excellent, need not consist of a great variety of
dishes; but everything should be of the best, and the cookery should
be perfect. That which should be cool should be cool as ice; that
which should be hot should be smoking; the attendance should be
rapid and noiseless; the guests well assorted; the wines of the best
quality; the host attentive and courteous; the room well lighted; and
the time punctual.
Every dinner should begin with soup, be followed by fish, and include
some kind of game. "The soup is to the dinner," we are told by Grisnod
de la Regnière, "what the portico is to a building, or the overture to
an opera."
To this aphorism we may be permitted to add that a _chasse_ of cognac
or curaçoa at the close of the dinner is like the epilogue at the end
of a comedy.
One more quotation and we have done:--"To perform faultlessly the
honours of the table is one of the most difficult things in society.
It might indeed he asserted without much fear of contradiction, that
no man has as yet ever reached exact propriety in his office as host,
or has hit the mean between exerting himself too much and too little.
His great business is to put every one entirely at his ease, to
gratify all his desires, and make him, in a word, absolutely contented
with men and things. To accomplish this, he must have the genius
of tact to perceive, and the genius of finesse to execute; ease
and frankness of manner; a knowledge of the world that nothing
can surprise; a calmness of temper that nothing can disturb; and a
kindness of disposition that can never be exhausted. When he receives
others he must be content to forget himself; he must relinquish
all desire to shine, and even all attempts to please his guests by
conversation, and rather do all in his power to let them please one
another. He behaves to them without agitation, without affectation; he
pays attention without an air of protection; he encourages the timid,
draws out the silent, and directs conversation without sustaining
it himself. He who does not do all this is wanting in his duty as
host--_he who does, is more than mortal_."
In conclusion, we may observe that to sit long in the dining-room
after the ladies have retired is to pay a bad compliment to the
hostess and her fair visitors; and that it is a still worse tribute
to rejoin them with a flushed face and impaired powers of thought. A
refined gentleman is always temperate.
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