THE first week in New York was, in a great measure, spent between the
theatre and the hotel. Invitations to dinner and receptions were, as a
rule, declined. The exceptions were breakfasts given by Mr. Vanderbilt
and Judge Shea. Many distinguished persons called. All kinds of polite
attentions were offered, some of which it is to be feared Irving had
not time or opportunity to acknowledge as he could have wished. One
gentleman placed his carriage at Mr. Irving’s disposal; another offered
to lend him his house; another his steam launch. These courtesies
were tendered gracefully and without ostentation. Flowers were sent
regularly from unknown hands to the Hotel Dam. Miss Terry went driving
with friends in the Park, and found the trotting-track a fascinating
scene. Within forty-eight hours Irving was a familiar figure in the
lower part of Fifth avenue and Union square, as he walked to and
from the theatre. He and Miss Terry made their first acquaintance
at Delmonico’s in company with myself and wife. An elegant little
dinner, of which the ice-creams were its most successful feature.
Artistic in construction, they were triumphs of delicate color. I think
they were the _chef’s_ tributes to Miss Terry’s supposed æsthetic
taste. No wonder the Delmonicos made millions of dollars, when it is
possible that the chief reminiscence of a dinner may be associated
with the ice-creams and sweets. On Tuesday, after a rehearsal and
a drive down-town on a pouring wet day, I piloted the new-comer to
Sieghortner’s, in Lafayette place. This well-known _café_ occupies the
house in which the Astors lived. It is a building characteristic of
the early days of New York’s first millionnaires,—marble steps, heavy
mahogany doors, rich Moorish decorations, spacious hall-ways. Close by
is the Astor Library, a valuable institution, and the street itself
has quite an Old-World look. It was once the most fashionable quarter
of New York; but wealth has moved towards the park, and left Lafayette
place to restaurants, boarding-houses, public baths, and stores.
Sieghortner himself is a typical Dutchman, a veritable Knickerbocker
of hotel-keepers, and a _gourmet_. He is almost the only “landlord”
(as we would call him at home) in New York who will condescend to
wait upon his guests. It is a pleasure to look upon his beaming face
when you order a dinner and leave _menu_ and wines to his judgment.
As he stands by your chair, directing his attendants, he is radiant
with satisfaction if you are pleased, and would no doubt be plunged
into despair if you were dissatisfied. Shrewsbury oysters, gumbo soup,
cutlets, canvas-back ducks, a _soufflé_, Stilton cheese, an ice, a
_liqueur_, a dish of fruit, and a bottle of hock that filled the room
with its delicious perfume.
“It was perfection, Mr. Sieghortner,” said Irving, as he sipped his
coffee, and addressed the old man,—“the canvas-back superb. You are
so interested in the art of dining that you will appreciate a little
experience of mine in connection with the great American bird,—I don’t
mean the eagle, but the duck.”
Sieghortner rubbed his hands, and said, “Oh, yes,—why, of course!”
“An old American friend of mine,—dead now, alas!—when he was in his
prime, as they say, frequently had numbers of canvas-back ducks sent
to London from New York. On the first great occasion of this kind
he invited thirty guests to eat thirty ducks. He spent a day or two
instructing the _chef_ of a well-known club how to cook them. The
kitchen was to be well heated, you know, and the ducks carried gently
through.”
“Oh, yes, that’s the way!” said Sieghortner, rubbing his hands.
“Well, the night came. His guests were in full force. The ducks were
served. They had a whitey-brown and flabby appearance. Bateman cut one
and put it aside. He tried another, and in his rage flung it under the
table. The dinner was an utter failure.”
“Dear! dear!” exclaimed Sieghortner.
“My friend did not forget it for months. He was continually saying,
‘I wonder how that fool spoiled our ducks; I have tried to find out,
but it is a mystery.’ Nearly a year afterwards I heard of the _chef’s_
sudden death. Meeting my friend, I said, ‘Have you heard of poor
So-and-so, the _chef_ at the club,—he is dead!’—‘I am very glad of
it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you know, he cooked those ducks over the gas!’”
“Dear! dear!” exclaimed Sieghortner, a quick expression of anger on his
face, “why, he ought to have been hanged!”