"Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner." If Byron, whose genius
few will deny, can make such a remark, there is no need for me to
apologize for dwelling upon a topic that long-haired dreamers, with bad
digestions, might call niggledy-piggledy. In fact, I have no intention
of so doing. It has long been my idea that dinner is not so much a mere
matter of material indulgence, as of artistic communion, to which food
is an accompaniment. The fact that the very best music, cruelly
harmonized, must distress--that Melba, Calvé, and Nordica warbling to a
discordant accompaniment, would produce nausea--can certainly need no
discussion. It is a fact that is self-evident. It has an Euclidian
Q.E.D-ness that is instantly apparent.
I told Letitia that I was not going to emulate the example of so many
men and treat myself each day to a choice luncheon in town. That has
always seemed to me to be a greedy process. Better--far better is it--to
return to one's home at night, hungry as a hunter, with an appetite for
healthful food, rather than an abnormal craving for _suprême de
volaille_. Don't you think so? I intended to save myself up for
Letitia--to accumulate hunger-pangs, and bring them to her table for
artistic treatment. My wife fully agreed with me, and although I brought
the due amount of hunger-pangs to our first dinner at home and
discovered, perhaps, that "delicatessen" food didn't treat them quite as
artistically as they deserved, I was not discouraged.
My appetite next evening was really in a wonderfully unimpaired
condition. I rejoiced to find that I was so healthy, and as I wended my
way homewards, I looked longingly at mere apples in the street, while
the peanut stands and the roast chestnut stoves almost suggested
assault.
On this occasion Letitia was not at the window, and I was disappointed.
Evidently she was busy and unable to look for my advent. Perhaps it was
selfish of me to expect her to dance attendance upon my comings and
goings, but a newly-made husband is inclined to be unduly exacting. Even
when I entered the apartment there was nobody to meet me, and it was not
until I reached the drawing-room that I found Letitia. She was sitting
there, looking at the fireplace that the steam-heat rendered so
unnecessary. If there had been glowing embers there she would have been
gazing into them. But there were none--merely gas-logs, unlighted. On
the floor by her side was a little white arrangement, around which were
coiled yards and yards of olive-green ribbon. Instantly I remembered
Anna's cap. I asked myself apprehensively why it was on the floor, and
not on Anna?
Letitia's face was flushed; her eyes were red; her pose was listless;
her manner strange. Something evil must have happened, and I sprang
forward with the cry: "Letitia!"
She started, and then came forward to kiss me. Her face felt feverish,
and for a moment my heart stood still and I was unable to ask for an
explanation.
Letitia herself, however, came to my rescue. "I've had such a horrible
time of it, Archie, that I almost telephoned for you to come back. Then,
I thought you would be frightened, so I simply telepathed.
And--and--that didn't work, so I determined to wait--"
The tears rushed to her eyes. I was frantic. I had never before seen
Letitia like this. She had been, hitherto, so impassive, so immovable,
so admirably self-controlled.
"What is it, dear?" I asked tenderly, thinking up dozens of possible
catastrophes.
"That!" she replied tremulously, pointing to the cap on the floor.
"Archie, I bought it this morning, trimmed it with seven yards of the
finest ribbon I could get, and then--when I offered it to Anna, I was
insulted--grossly insulted--although--although she told me that I--I,
Archie--had grossly insulted her. Oh, I shall never forget it."
"I don't understand, dear. Please explain--when you feel calmer."
"I'm calm, now," she asserted, with a telltale gulp. "First of all,
dear, when I gave her the cap and told her that I hoped she would always
wear it--as it matched the burlap in the dining-room so well--she burst
out laughing. Oh, how she laughed! She put her hands to her
sides--akimbo, I think they call it--and made such a noise that I was
afraid. Oh, that coon laughter! And, then, Archie, what do you think she
asked me? You would never guess. What she meant I can't quite figure
out, but she asked me if I thought--if I thought--"
"Tell me, Letitia."
"She asked me if I thought she was a blooming circus! A blooming circus,
Archie! She told me that if I hadn't a quarter to go and see a variety
show, she would lend me one. The humiliation of it! Then she said that
she wasn't going to do any 'vaudeville turn' here. Vaudeville turn, if
you please, Archie. She told me that I had airs and manners 'to
burn'--which I imagine must be slang. Nothing would induce her to put
on the cap. She said it was a merry-andrew affair, and though I
explained to her that in Paris such caps were quite the thing, it had no
effect on her. In fact, she almost told me that I lied, for she declared
that she had been in Paris herself and had never seen such degradation."
"Had she been in Paris, Letitia?" I asked, surprised.
"Yes, dear," replied Letitia, brushing back her disheveled hair, "in
Paris, Kentucky. She was born there. Poor girl! When I realized that she
was quite ignorant, I felt sorry for her. I said to her in a very gentle
voice: 'Anna, I wanted you to wear this cap, because I thought it would
look so well with the nice black alpaca dress that I am going to give
you.' On the spur of the moment, Archie, I had decided to present her
with a black alpaca dress--"
"And then--?"
"And then," continued Letitia, "she turned on me again. I could keep the
black alpaca dress, she said, until she was ready for the Old Ladies'
Home. That was the livery there, she informed me. No black dresses for
her. Red was the only thing worth living for, she said, and mauve came
next. She insisted that she wasn't working for black alpaca dresses. If
she so far forgot her dignity as to go out to domestic service, it was
because she needed silk gowns, and flower hats--"
"She saw you were young and inexperienced," I said bitterly, "and she
was just imposing. I think I'll go and have a talk with her--"
"You can't," cried Letitia nervously, "she's out. Oh, I'm so glad she's
out, for I was really frightened, Archie, and can't forget her as she
stood there--just where you are--in an old weather-beaten black silk
skirt with half the beads on, and a bright red jersey with half the
buttons off."
"She must go!" I exclaimed imperiously. "She must go."
"No, Archie, no. The matter has been settled in an amicable way. Just as
she was leaving me she burst out crying, and I felt most horribly
guilty. I have no idea why I felt guilty for I had merely intended to be
kind, though firm, as Aunt Julia said. Still, I felt guilty. Half an
hour after she came back, quite lively, and dressed to go out, in the
mauve silk, with the flower hat. She told me not to be angry, and not to
worry--that sometimes when she was unstrung, she was taken that way;
that she hadn't really meant anything, as she knew I was only joking
about the cap and the black dress. I felt so relieved, Archie, it was a
weight off my mind."
"And dinner?" I carefully tried to suppress a few pangs that were
rioting.
"She was so upset, dear, that I really believed that she would go
without even thinking of dinner. But I wronged her, for she didn't. She
is not really a bad girl--merely odd, some one to study psychologically.
In spite of her hysterical condition she has prepared dinner--another
delicatessen dinner. I hope you won't mind, dear."
I sank wearily into an arm-chair. "I had an apple for luncheon,
Letitia," I said with a yearning for sympathy; "one apple, and nothing
more. What did you have?"
"Anna boiled me an egg," she replied; "it was really beautifully cooked,
and I had some bread, and butter, and coffee. I wanted tea, Archie, but
Anna had forgotten to get any in the house, as she prefers coffee. Isn't
it funny, Archie? She says she simply can't drink tea--it nauseates
her--and that she is quite famous for her coffee--"
"Letitia," I interrupted, "I don't think I could undergo another
delicatessen dinner. The potato salad was certainly very nice, so were
the pickles--as appetizers. But," with a weak attempt at humor, "I
really couldn't give them an encore. Let's go out to dinner. Let's put
on our things, and go down to the Martin--"
Letitia clapped her hands. "How gorgeous!" she cried ecstatically, "what
a lovely idea!"
"It seems silly," I said, "to abandon our home as soon as we get into
it, doesn't it, Letitia? Here we are dining out before we've dined in--"
"But, Archie," suggested Letitia triumphantly, "Aunt Julia says that
nearly all New Yorkers dine at restaurants, when it is cook's night
out--"
"In our case, dear,"--with a little sarcastic inflection--"every night
appears to be cook's night out. So we really ought to subscribe to a
restaurant--"
"That is unjust, Archie. We have been at home two nights only. Last
night we really did enjoy the novelty of the delicatessen dinner, and
to-night there is another waiting for us. If it hadn't been for the cap
with the ribbons--which was an accident--this second delicatessen dinner
wouldn't have occurred. And I'm sure--"
"Well, to-morrow night we dine at home, Letitia," I remarked rather
haughtily, "for I have invited Arthur Tamworth, who is quite an epicure.
When we get back from the restaurant we will arrange a little menu, and
Anna can then give us a taste of her quality."
"And I dare say that she will," said Letitia, bestowing a kiss upon me.
"Probably she is an exceedingly good cook. We are paying her heavy
wages, Archie--the wages of a very good cook, Aunt Julia says. I don't
fancy that Anna is the woman to sail under false colors--"
"Unless mauve be a false color," I interposed wittily, and then we both
laughed and good temper was restored. Like a couple of children, we went
gaily off to the restaurant, with ne'er a thought of the cold sausage
and the buff salad that graced our own mahogany.
It was a very long and well-furnished dinner, but it was not too long
for us. We were famished. At various times I have seen Letitia "toy"
with her food. I have often told her that she merely coquetted with her
meals. But now she labored strenuously, and this dinner was a serious
affair. We were both too busy even to talk. The waiters looked at us in
amazement, as they removed dish after dish, with naught to tell the tale
of its quality. It was even alarming. It was not until we had arrived at
the coffee that we paused in our mad career. Letitia glanced at me a
trifle shamefacedly, I thought; I returned the glance, perhaps a bit
abashed. Possibly she was vexed that she had shattered the
rose-leaf-and-dewdrop theory, for she had certainly done so. I had never
seen her in the desperation of hunger, simply battling for food.
"We _were_ hungry," said Letitia, with a little sigh of greedy
satisfaction, as I lighted a cigarette. And I was glad that she included
me. It put her at ease and, as a matter of fact, I had been just as
ardent. It was unusual--but it seemed better for her to be plural in her
remarks.
"If Anna saw us," I was puffing contentedly at my cigarette, "I don't
think she would suggest another delicatessen dinner. Oh, those
pickles--that sausage--the ecru potato muddle! Really, Letitia--"
"I suppose that when one is positively hungry," Letitia murmured, "such
food is trying. Few cooks, however, anticipate appetites like ours,
dear."
Once again I was included. It was quite natural that Letitia should
arraign me with herself. But the idea dawned upon me that though I had
done my duty to this dinner just as nobly as had my wife--her appetite,
for a fragile girl, was really more extraordinary than was mine for a
full-fledged man.
As soon as we were home again, Letitia suggested that we start at once
to arrange the little menu for the dinner at which Arthur Tamworth was
to be present on the following evening. We sat in the drawing-room,
although we should have preferred the cozier dining-room. In that
apartment, however, the delicatessen dinner was still laid. We took one
look at it and then fled. In our state of repletion it seemed too
insolent to endure. Anna was not there to remove it, and Letitia's
education was such that the sordid details of clearing a table were a
bit beyond her.
"I wish," she said, "that we had arranged this menu before dinner. It is
hard to think up things, after one has dined so well."
"Yes, dear," I assented, "soup just now is so unattractive and--er--meat
palls."
"But to-morrow we shan't feel like that," she declared triumphantly,
"and one must look ahead, Archie. You just smoke quietly, dear, and I'll
write out the menu. Then we'll talk it over. I shall make it out in
French, dear. The simplest things sound almost epicurean in French. I
shall buy three very pretty menu cards to-morrow--with little artistic
drawings on them, one for each of us. And I dare say that Mr. Tamworth
will like to take his home with him."
"But Anna won't understand French."
"I've thought of that," said Letitia, biting her pencil. "I shall make
the list out in English for Anna, so that she can buy the things and
serve them properly. Of course, she may know French--she certainly does
if she has lived in good families--but I won't rely on it. Every cook
really should be proficient in the gastronomic phrases that are so
popular to-day."
"Strange, isn't it, Letitia, that English and American menus should
always affect French?"
"No, dear," replied my wife, "not at all. We copy the Latin countries in
all the arts. Why not in that of dining? Dining _is_ an art, and not--as
we regard it in England and America--a mere vulgar physiological
process."
For ten minutes Letitia thought and wrote--and wrote and thought. She
looked up at the ceiling for inspiration; she glanced at me, unseeingly,
and when I made a face at her, never noticed it. She sat there, working,
while I idly admired her and thought what an admirable little housewife
she was. For such a blue-stocking, Letitia was doing wonders, it seemed
to me.
At the end of the ten minutes she had finished and, bringing her work to
my chair, she sat on the tiger-head at my knee and announced with much
satisfaction that her efforts had been successful.
"Listen, Archie," she began, with her paper comfortably settled on her
lap. "First of all, let me say that I have made out a very simple
dinner. I hate ostentation and glare. My idea is to be dainty and
unpretentious. We don't want Mr. Tamworth to think that we are living
beyond our means, but we do want him to realize the fact that we know
how to be refined and inexpensive at the same time."
"Certainly. You are quite right, Letitia. Go on."
"As _hors d'oeuvres_," she continued, "we will have olives and _anchois
à l'huile_. That is quite enough for a little home dinner. You write it
all in English for Anna as I read it to you. Here, take this piece of
paper and pencil, dear."
I wrote: "Olives. Anchovies at the oil."
"For soup," she went on, "I shall have things that sound really much
better than they are, as I don't want to confuse Anna. Just two soups,
Archie, _consommé julienne_, and _crème d'asperges_. I did think of
_petite marmite_, but there is just a chance that Anna might fail at it,
as even in Paris none but the finest _chefs_ really succeed with _petite
marmite_. So just put down _consommé julienne_, and _crème d'asperges_."
"Beef soup with vegetables. Cream of asparagus," I wrote. "Don't you
think, Letitia, that one soup would have been enough--one thoroughly
artistic and satisfactory soup?"
"No, Archie," she responded with some asperity. "I hate pinning people
down to one thing--taking a tailor-like measure of their tastes, as it
were. Doesn't it all sound horrid in English?" she queried with a laugh.
"One might really fancy a little _consommé julienne_, whereas beef soup
with vegetables sounds absolutely tin-can-ny, and red-handkerchief-y."
I thought of Letitia at the restaurant, just one hour previously, and
realized what absolute hunger can do for a lissome little lady.
"Just one _entrée_, Archie,"' said she, "merely _homard naturel_.
Everybody likes it, and I prefer to class it as an _entrée_. I did think
of having it _à la Newburg_, but it is a bit too heavy, don't you think,
dear? I don't want our dinner to be a foody affair--"
"Like that we have just finished," I interposed thoughtfully.
"No," she agreed rather reluctantly. "We were both disgracefully hungry,
and--and--you needn't keep discussing that meal, for it was a meal, and
_not_ a dinner. Now, write down, please, as _entrée_, _homard naturel_."
"Natural lobster," emerged from my pencil tip.
"After that, a solid dish," Letitia declared. "You see, Archie, Mr.
Tamworth is American, and we don't want to worry him with quail, or
squab or little unsatisfactory game. I've thought it carefully over and
it seems to me that a tiny, dainty _bifsteck aux pommes de terre_ will
be energetic without being squalid. What say you, boy? Don't you agree
with me?"
"Beefsteak with potatoes," I wrote glibly, but even as my pencil framed
the words, I shuddered. After our recent heavy dinner the thought of it
seemed so arduous.
Letitia understood. "You see, it's all due to the coarseness of the
English language," she insisted, "and you must remember that you are
Englishing it for Anna only. I wonder," she added pensively, "if Anna
would make us some of those _soufflé_ potatoes--you know, Archie, those
things that are all blown out, and that seem like eating fried air. They
are most delicate. We used to have them every Sunday at the _pension_,
in the Avenue du Roule. However, I won't tax the girl. Perhaps she may
give us the potatoes in that style without being told. I fancy, dear,
that she is going to surprise us. I dare say it will be a relief to her
to see that we really know what good living is. I shall leave the
potatoes to her."
"We may as well give her a chance," I agreed. "Personally, I would just
as soon have the potatoes _maître d'hôtel_. It is very likely that Anna
will prefer that method, as it is more usual."
"And after that," Letitia cried gaily, "nothing, but _glaces aux
fraises_--"
"Strawberry ices," I wrote.
"And a _demi-tasse_."
"Coffee. It is very convenient in New York, dear," I said, "Anna will
not have the worry of making the ices. All she will have to do will be
to order a quart and they will send it over in a cardboard box."
Letitia shivered. "Yes, I know, Archie. It is very coarse, isn't it?
Imagine thinking of ices by the quart! Picture them in a cardboard box!"
"They speak of it in the singular here, dear. It is ice-cream. You talk
of a quart of _it_; not of a quart of _them_. It doesn't really matter,
though. The taste is the same."
"Ugh!" Letitia exclaimed, "it is very discouraging. Why people call
delicious foods by such ugly titles, I don't know. 'A quart of
ice-cream' has such a greedy sound, whereas 'a strawberry ice' is pretty
and artistic to the ear. But as you say, dear, it really makes no
difference. But what do you think of the dinner, dear? Does it appeal to
you? After all, Archie, I would sooner it pleased you than Mr. Tamworth,
though he _is_ the guest."
"It is lovely," I said enthusiastically, "and, Letitia, so are you. And
you would sooner please me than Arthur Tamworth, oh, most charming of
wives? Well, you will do that, my dear. Yet I bet that our little dinner
will be a red-letter affair for Arthur."
"I shall get the menus at Brentano's to-morrow," announced Letitia,
"some pretty little water-color, or etching, if possible. I don't intend
to economize, Archie. Our first dinner-party--for three is a crowd,
isn't it?--must, and shall be delightful."