Helen and I are economising; so the other evening we dined at the
Rococo.
"That's no economy," you cry; so let me explain.
In common with most other folk who are not engaged in the manufacture
of khaki, or rifles, or Army woollens, or heavy siege-guns (to which I
had not the foresight to turn my attention before the war came along),
we have found it necessary to adopt a policy of retrenchment and
reform; and one of our first moves in this direction was to convert
Evangeline from a daily into a half-daily. Evangeline is not a
newspaper but a domestic servant, and before the new order was issued
she had been in the habit of arriving at our miniature flat at 7.30 in
the morning (when it wasn't 8.15), and retiring at 9 in the evening.
Now, however, Evangeline goes after lunch, and Helen, who has bought a
shilling cookery book, prepares the dinner herself.
On the day in question Helen suddenly decided to spend the afternoon
repairing a week's omissions on the part of Evangeline. It proved a
veritable labour of Hercules, the flat being, as Helen with near
enough accuracy gave me to understand, an "Aegaean stable." Tea-time
came, but brought no tea. Shortly before seven Helen struck, and
declared (this time without any classical metaphor) that she wasn't
going to cook any dinner that evening. Not to be outdone, I affirmed
in reply that even if she did cook it I wasn't going to clear it away.
So we cleaned and adorned ourselves and groped our way to the Rococo.
We were both too tired to go to the trouble of choosing our dinner,
and it was therefore that we elected to make our way through the
_table-d'hote_, to which we felt that our appetite, unimpaired by tea,
could do full justice. Luxuriously we toyed with _hors-d'oeuvre_,
while the orchestra patriotically intimated that ours is a Land of
Hope and Glory; blissfully we consumed our soup, undeterred by
repeated reminders of the distance to Tipperary. It was with the fish
that the trouble started.
At the second mouthful it began to dawn upon me that what the band
was playing was the _Brabanconne_. I looked around, and gathered
that I was not alone in the realisation of that fact; for one by one
my fellow-diners struggled hesitatingly to their feet, and stood in
awkward reverence while the National Anthem of our brave Belgian
Allies was in course of execution. I looked at Helen, and Helen
looked at me, and we both tried not to look too regretfully at our
plates as we also adopted the prevailing pose. Not one note of that
light-hearted anthem did the orchestra miss, and when it was over the
warmth in our hearts almost compensated for the coldness of our
fish. We decided to jump at once to the _entree_.
Whatever else may be said of the _Marseillaise_, there can be no
mistaking its identity. The first bar sufficed to bring the whole room
to attention, and a promising dish of sweetbreads shared the fate of
its predecessor. Before the final crash had ceased to reverberate we
sat down with a thump, resigning ourselves to the prospect of doing
double justice to the joint. But the orchestra was not so lightly
to be cheated of its prey. True, we held out as long as possible
while the Russian Hymn began to unfold its majestic length, and
Helen actually managed to convey a considerable piece of saddle of
mutton to her mouth while she was in the very act of rising. That
joint, however, was soon but a memory of anticipation, and our hunger
was still keen upon us when the funereal strains of the Japanese
Anthem coincided with the arrival of a wild duck. I had always
harboured secret doubts of the advisability of Japan's joining in the
War, and now they were intensified many times. Cold wild duck is an
impossibility even to a hungry man.
Ice-pudding, though scarcely satisfying, seemed to warrant the
expectation that it would at least survive whatever further ordeal the
band had in store for us. But that hope too was doomed to extinction.
When _God Save the King_ smote the air the growing lethargy of the
company of diners vanished, and all joined with a will in the recital
of all its verses. In the glow of loyal enthusiasm that filled the
room the ice gradually melted, and as we surveyed the fluid mess upon
our plates we knew that our dinner was gone beyond recall.
Weary and unappeased we crept home through the City of Dreadful Night.
I found a remnant of cold beef and some pickles in the kitchen, and on
this we went to bed. I slept but little, and on five occasions watched
Helen, who has dreams, get out of bed and stand to attention.
Of course it might have been worse; for the musicians of the Rococo
evidently had not learnt the national airs of Serbia and Montenegro;
and Portugal had not then been drawn into the War. But until the
trouble is over I shall avoid restaurants which harbour an orchestra.
As you say, it is no economy.
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