d'œuvre_ were brought in the master of the ceremonies, taking a book
from the top of one of the dwarf cupboards, showed me the Grace
before meat, a solemn little prayer which is really beautiful in its
simplicity. With the Grace comes the ceremony of the host breaking
bread, dipping the broken pieces in salt, and handing them round to his
guests, who sit with covered heads.
Of the _hors d'œuvre_, Solomon Gundy, which had a strange sound to me,
was a form of pickled herring, excellently appetising.
Before the soup was brought up, the master of the ceremonies explained
that the Frimsell was made from stock, and a paste of eggs and flour
rolled into tiny threads like vermicelli, while the Matsoklese had in
it balls of unleavened flour. When the soup was brought the two were
combined, and the tiny threads and the balls of dough both swam in a
liquid which had somewhat the taste of vermicelli soup. The master of
the ceremonies told me I must taste the pease and beans soup which
followed, as it is a very old-fashioned Jewish dish. It is very like a
rich pease-soup, and is cooked in carefully skimmed fat. In the great
earthenware jar which holds the soup is cooked the "kugel," a kind of
pease-pudding, which was to appear much later at the feast.
Goldstein's is the restaurant patronised by the "froom," the strictest
observers of religious observances, of the Jewish community, and we
should by right only have drunk unfermented Muscat wine with our
repast, but some capital hock took its place, and when the master
of the ceremonies and the faithful soul touched glasses, one said
"Lekhaim," and the other answered the greeting with "Tavim." Then,
before the fish was put on the table, the master of the ceremonies told
me of the elaborate care that was taken in the selection of animals
to be killed, of the inspection of the butcher's knives, of the tests
applied to the dead animals to see that the flesh is good, of the
soaking and salting of the meat and the drawing-out of the veins from
it. The many restrictions, originally imposed during the wandering in
the desert, which make shell-fish, and wild game, and scaleless fish
unlawful food--these and many other interesting items of information
were imparted to me.
The white-stewed gurnet, with chopped parsley and a sauce of egg and
lemon-juice, tempered by onion flavouring, was excellent. In the brown
sauce served with the carp were such curious ingredients as treacle,
gingerbread and onions, but the result, a strong, rich sauce, is very
pleasant to the taste. The great cold fried soles standing on their
heads and touching tails, and the two big sections of plaice flanking
them, I knew must be good; but I explained to the master of ceremonies
that I had already nearly eaten a full-sized man's dinner, and that I
must be left a little appetite to cope with what was to come.
Very tender veal, with a sauce of egg and lemon, which had a thin,
sharp taste, and a steak, tender also, stewed with walnuts, an
excellent dish to make a dinner of, were the next items on the
menu, and I tasted each; but I protested against the capon and the
chicken as being an overplus of good things, and the master of the
ceremonies--who, I think, had a latent fear that I might burst before
the feast came to an end--told the waiter not to bring them up.
The smoked beef was a delicious firm brisket, and the tongue, salted,
was also exceptionally good. I felt that the last feeble rag of an
appetite had gone, but the cucumber, a noble Dutch fellow, pickled
in salt and water in Holland, came to my aid, and a slice of this,
better than any _sorbet_ that I know of, gave me the necessary power to
attempt, in a last despairing effort, the kugel and apple staffen and
almond pudding.
The staffen is a rich mixture of many fruits and candies with a thin
crust. The kugel is a pease-pudding cooked, as I have written above,
in the pease and beans soup. The almond pudding is one of those moist
delicacies that I thought only the French had the secret of making.
Coffee--no milk, even if we had wanted it, for milk and butter are not
allowed on the same table as flesh--and a liqueur of brandy, and then,
going downstairs, we looked into the two simple rooms, running into
each other, which form the public restaurant, rooms empty at nine P.M.,
but crowded at the midday meal.
Mr Goldstein, who was there, told us that his patrons had become so
numerous that he would soon have to move to larger premises, and may
by now have done so, and certainly the cooking at the restaurant is
excellent, and I do not wonder at its obtaining much patronage.
What this Gargantuan repast cost I do not know, for the designer of the
feast said that the bill was to be sent to him.
I think that a "kosher" dinner, if this is a fair specimen, is a
succession of admirably cooked dishes. But an ordinary man should be
allowed a week in which to eat it.
XXIV
THE MITRE
AT HAMPTON COURT
We all know that in the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to
thoughts of love, but it is not such common knowledge that in the early
summer the thoughts of a man of mature age turn with equal agility to
duckling and green peas. And with duckling and green peas I always
associate the Mitre at Hampton Court. So it came to pass that I asked a
crony of like tastes to myself to meet me on a spring Sunday at Hampton
Court in the late afternoon, and suggested that we should walk in the
gardens of the Palace and see the rhododendrons, which were then in
great beauty, and that we should afterwards dine at the Mitre, sup
green pea soup and eat duckling and green peas.
The Mitre is the most typically late Georgian, or early Victorian,
inn that I know of in the neighbourhood of London, and its great
attraction is that it has kept the old cookery, the old furniture, the
old pictures, the old china, the old plate, and last, but not least,
the old manners. It has been quite unconscious of the changes in the
outside world, it knows nothing of electric light and such newfangled
ideas, there are no French rolls to be found in its bread baskets, and
its ducklings are spitted and roasted before an open fire, being well
basted the while.
This, very briefly, is the history of the Mitre. It is the direct
successor of the Toy Inn, an old house which stood on Crown property,
and the lease of which expired about the year of the battle of
Waterloo. The Toy was pulled down, and Mr Goodman, and Mr Sadler with
him, were obliged to look for a new home in which to carry on the old
traditions. This they found in three houses standing together near the
wooden bridge (alas and alack that the picturesque old bridge has given
place to the dull-red iron horror which was built in 1865!), and one of
the charms of the Mitre is the quaint irregularity of its architecture,
the brown bricks and red tiles of its face turned towards the Palace,
its white face and slate roof on the river side, the great wistaria and
the ivy knitting together all the various features.
And parenthetically I wish to protest against the hiding away of the
Mitre from the view of the people as they cross the bridge, or of those
who row or go by launch or river. Just in front of the Mitre Hotel is
an eyot, which I believe is Government property. The willows on this
have been allowed to grow so high that they entirely blot out the
view from the river of the white face of the Mitre, and the long row
of windows of its banqueting-room; and equally, of course, the trees
obstruct the view of the river from the delightful little bowling-green
with ivied arches which is between the hotel and the backwater. If,
whoever he is, the Government official who has this eyot in his charge
will walk across the Hampton Court bridge or sit for ten minutes on the
lawn before the Mitre he will, I am sure, require no further prompting
to order the pollarding of the trees.
Mr Goodman came to the three old houses and put up the name of the
Mitre in golden letters, and gave orders that the pillars that support
the great bow-window on the first floor should be painted as though
they were of very variegated marble, and with him from the old inn
he brought the little glass bow window which looks out from the bar
parlour into the Mitre hall, and he also brought with him all the old
Spode china from the Toy. Some of the original china is still preserved
at the Mitre, and whenever new plates and new dishes are required
Messrs Copeland, the successors to Spode, make them in the old moulds,
though those moulds are now wearing out; and the plates from which the
guests of to-day eat their lunches and dinners are identical with those
that came across the Green from the Toy. After a while Mr Goodman moved
on to the Whitehall Hotel, a big white-faced house which looks out on
to the Green, and which abuts on Cardinal Wolsey's old stables, and Mr
Sadler the First reigned in his stead.
It was Mr Sadler the First who bought the old Sheffield plate which
makes such a brave show at the banquets at the Mitre, tureens in which
the soup comes to table, and the platters on which the fish is served.
Six o'clock was the hour at which I had asked my crony to meet me on
the steps of the Mitre that we might consult together as to the menu of
our dinner, and I found him waiting for me chatting to Mr Sadler, the
elder of the two sons of Mr Sadler the First, and in the background was
Bagwell, the head waiter, who is a model to all British head waiters.
He has the appearance and the comforting manner of a high dignitary of
the Church, and I am quite sure would wear knee-breeches and an apron
and rosetted tall hat with as good grace as any bishop in the land. The
oldest inhabitants of Hampton Court, when I have sung Bagwell's praises
to them, have said to me: "Ah, but you ought to have known Smith," the
head waiter who flourished some thirty years ago. But to them I reply
that not having known Smith it is a comfort to me to be acquainted
with Bagwell. Bagwell had on a card a suggested menu for our dinner,
which ran thus:--Green Pea Soup, Grilled Trout, Stewed Eels, Duckling
and Green Peas and New Potatoes, cold Asparagus and Gooseberry Tart.
The eels I looked upon as a superfluity, though they are one of the
dishes of the house and are kept alive in the hotel in tanks until the
moment comes for their sacrifice. I also parried the suggestion that
sweetbreads should be included, for I hold that a duckling, if he be
a good duckling, well roasted and filled with savoury stuffing, is so
good a dish that he requires no supplement of any kind.
When at seven we returned from our walk through the gardens of the
Palace a table had been spread for us in the bow-window, whence the
view of the river, and the house-boats, and the towing path, and the
walls of the Palace Gardens, and the big trees and the old gates, is a
very splendid thing. A quiet-footed, quiet-mannered waiter was ready
to attend on us, and on the table were the shining cruets and a little
loaf and a slab of beautiful butter, and to the tick of half-past seven
the soup in a plated tureen was put in front of me.
The soup was excellently hot and of a strength unusual in a vegetable
soup. It had, I fancy, been laced with all manner of good things. It
made an excellent commencement to the dinner. The trout, a fine salmon
trout, of a beautiful pink, came straight up from the grill on a plated
dish, and with it the Tartar sauce in a plated boat. When the cover was
taken off from the duckling, set down before me to carve, the sweet
savour of good roasting and the perfume of the stuffing gratified the
sense of smell. And that duckling was as tender as a duckling should
be, and the peas were large and cooked to the requisite degree of
softness, and the apple sauce was excellent. That our plates were the
old Spode plates, soft blue in their pattern, and that the knives and
forks and spoons were all of an old pattern, were all tiny points of
enjoyment. The asparagus was good green English asparagus, and the
crust of the gooseberry pie was of meringue-like lightness.
At the table to one side of us in the big bow sat a couple who were
also dining on duckling and drinking a bottle of champagne, for the
Mitre has an excellent cellar of wines at prices far below those of
London restaurants, and at the table on the other side were two ladies
and three men who had been on the river and had brought river appetites
and river good spirits to table with them. Farther back in the room
were other little parties of diners. I had asked host Sadler some
questions about the Masonic banquets which are held in the red-walled
rooms the windows of which overlook the bowling-green, and after our
dinner was finished he brought me a little sheaf of menus of banquets,
and he also brought a bottle of the old Cognac of the house, which
he was anxious that we should taste. I looked through the menus, and
the following of a banquet of the Bard of Avon Lodge seemed to me to
be that of a distinctly English feast. It has in it the _matelote_ of
stewed eels and the braised sweetbreads for which I did not find room
in our little dinner for two:
SOUP.
Purée of Asparagus. Spring.
FISH.
Grilled Trout. Sauce Tartare.
Stewed Eels en Matelote.
ENTRÉE.
Braised Sweetbreads.
REMOVES.
Roast Fore Quarter of Lamb.
French Beans.
Ducklings. Peas.
Asparagus.
SWEETS.
Gooseberry Foule. Cream.
Madeira Jellies.
Iced Pudding.
DESSERT.
My crony and I sat sipping the old brandy, talking at intervals, and
watching how the daylight gave place to the afterglow, how the people
on the towpath thinned in numbers to single figures, and the homeward
bound boats on the river became fewer and fewer. As the light died out
the river became a sheet of dull silver, and the colour of the old
brick walls of the Palace gardens and its out-buildings grew to deeper
and a deeper purple, and the great trees became warm black silhouettes
against the darkening sky and the lights in the house-boats moored by
the bank began to throw reflections into the stream.
Everything, even a spring evening at Hampton Court, must come to an
end, and at last I called for my bill. The dinner was eight shillings
a head, and so moderate had we been in our summer beverages--the
old brandy was host Sadler's contribution--that the total came to a
sovereign.
We walked along the path up the river in the cool of the evening till
we could see the lights in Garrick's Villa, and then my crony and I
bade each other good-night and went our separate ways.
XXV
IN THE HANDS OF PI(E)RATES
THE CONNAUGHT ROOMS
When it was decided by the contributors to _Printer's Pie_ to entertain
their editor, "The Pieman," a little committee of artists and writers,
with the editor of _The Tatler_ as secretary, considered various plans
for giving Mr Hugh Spottiswoode a dinner with unusual surroundings.
[Illustration]
A decision was arrived at that the contributors to the _Pie_ should
become Pi(e)rates, for one night only, and in that guise should
entertain the Pieman in a pirate haunt, and then the next question
was the choice of a dining place and the difficult matter of finding
the proprietor or manager of a restaurant who would enter thoroughly
into the spirit of the burlesque and would provide a real pirate feast
with blood-curdling piratical surroundings. A member of the committee
suggested Mr George Harvey, who controls the Connaught Rooms in Great
Queen Street, as the very man, and to the next meeting of the committee
Mr George Harvey came, quiet, humorous and resourceful, and when he
heard the outlines of our scheme he smiled, and said that he thought he
quite understood what we wanted.
It was essential to the success of our little joke that the guest of
the evening should know nothing of the reception he would get, and when
the Pi(e)rates were informed that the dress of a bold buccaneer was
to be the wear at dinner at the Connaught Rooms, they were entreated
to keep this a secret from the Pieman. Strangely enough, the secret
was kept; he had no inkling of what was going to happen to him. When,
heralded by a commissionaire, he came up the grand staircase of the
restaurant, faultlessly attired in his best evening clothes, he gave
a jump when the Master-at-Arms of the Pirates, attired in the levee
uniform of a pirate king, suddenly appeared before him with drawn
cutlass and a ferocious look, and told two stalwart members of the
pirate gang to "Arrest that man!"
If it would interest you to know who the pirates are, when they are not
pirating, you have only to look at the contents pages of _Printer's
Pie_ and you can there read the list of the authors and artists who
were busy between seven and eight o'clock one Friday, in a little
room in Great Queen Street, transforming themselves from fairly
respectable members of society into the most shocking criminals that
ever went to sea. There were pirates of all kinds, all centuries and
all classes. There were gentlemen pirates with nickel-plated revolvers;
one pirate of particular ferocity from the Barbary Coast had given
himself an emerald-green complexion; another pirate, who feared that
his good-natured face might belie his costume, carried on his breast
a large placard with a photo on it for identification purposes, and
the legend "I am an [adjective] pirate." Some of the pirates wore
long false noses; many of them had the skull and crossbones on their
jerseys; cocked hats with feathers were quite fashionable wear, and no
belt had less than three pistols stuck into it. One writer of humorous
short stories came as an old growler cabby, explaining that cabmen were
the only pirates that he had ever met. The chairman of the dinner, who
had been selected for that onerous post because, as the designer of the
covers of all the _Printer's Pies_ he had always come first amongst its
contributors, had added an Afghan sheepskin coat to his other piratical
garment--luckily for him the night was very cold--and was attended by
a minor pirate, who carried on a long stick a triangular lantern as a
sign of authority.
When the pirates' prisoner was arrested he was requested to step into a
little boat on wheels, the doors of the ante-room were flung wide open
and the boat was dragged into the presence of the pirate Captain, who
stood in the centre of the room, with the pirate band playing "Down
Among the Dead Men" on silvered papier-maché instruments to his left,
and to his right the pirate crew flourishing pistols and cutlasses. The
little boat paused for a moment while the pirates gave a blood-curdling
boarding yell, and then continued its career at hydroplane pace into
the dining-room, with the pirates following after.
The Crown Room had become a pirates' lair prepared for a feast. The
walls had been shut out by scenery representing sea and mountain; the
floor was an inch deep in sawdust; in the corners of the room were
plantations of palm-trees, with parrots in cages in the midst of them.
These parrots missed the opportunity of their lives, for they were so
stunned by the noise the pirates made at their meal that they never
uttered a single scream.
At one side of the pirates' lair was a great dhow, such as one sees
sailing in and out of Aden. It was really a stage for the band and the
after-dinner performers, but it had been converted into a dhow. In its
tall stern a piano was housed; it had high bulwarks, a tall mast and a
great lateen sail. From the mast-head flew the "Jolly Roger," and in
the rigging was a huge red lantern.
A dozen round tables had been prepared for the pirates, with sheets
of brown paper laid on them as tablecloths. The room was lighted by
candles stuck into bottles and set on the tables. Of knives and forks
there were none apparent; the salt was great lumps of the rock variety,
the mustard was in teacups and the pepper in screws of brown paper.
The menu, which is reproduced at the head of this chapter, was written
with an inky stick on torn bits of brown paper, and each pirate's place
was marked for him by a card with blood spots on it. Every table had a
big card in a split cane set up to mark a pirate locality. There were
Skeleton Cove and Murder Gulch, Coffin Marsh, Gallows' Hill, Cannibal's
Creek, Dead Man's Rock and others, and the ship's officers, the roll of
which included the Stale Mate, the Hangman, the Powder Monkey and the
Ship's Parrot, presided each at a table. The first mate sat next to the
Captain, and it was his business to wave a black flag over his great
commander's head at intervals, and to beat constantly a big drum which
was concealed under the table.
The waiters at the feast looked even greater ruffians than the
feasters, which is saying a great deal. They were the most shocking set
of criminals and marine cut-throats that ever carried a dish of salt
junk. Most of them had black eyes; their bare arms were wondrously
tattooed, and they all smoked short clay pipes as they went about
their work. The pirates, because of their superior station, smoked
long churchwardens, of which, and playing-cards, there was a plentiful
supply scattered about the tables. One waiter entered so thoroughly
into his part that he danced a little hornpipe as he took round the
dishes.
When the feast had commenced with oysters, the pirate waiters suddenly
produced a supply of knives and forks, and menus of what the real
dinner was. Below is the menu of the real dinner, and an excellent
dinner it was. Pirates who had known better days nodded to each other
approvingly across the table when they had eaten the fish dish, which
was exceptionally good. Mr George Harvey most certainly has succeeded
in regilding the faded glories of the Freemasons' Tavern and in putting
the Connaught Rooms, which is the title of the rebuilt house, very
firmly on the dining map of London.
Huîtres Royales.
Consommé Excelsior.
Timbale de Sole Archiduc.
Poularde Hongroise.
Nouilles au Parmesan.
Noisette de Pré-Salé Montmorency.
Pommes Anna.
Faisan en Cocotte à la Truffe.
Salade Jolly Roger.
Jambon d'York au Champagne.
Poires St George.
Friandises.
Barquettes de Laitances.
Dessert.
Café Double.
The band, a real string orchestra, in white jackets, on the deck of
the dhow, played rag-time melodies and other inspiriting airs, and
occasionally made itself heard above the noise with which the pirates
settled down to their feast. The big drum was always in action, and
somewhere outside the hall a waiter shook a sheet of theatre-thunder
in a vain attempt to equal the noise of the drum within; pistols
were discharged in all parts of the lair, and the pirate with an
emerald-green complexion, whenever he thought the Captain looked dull,
walked over to his table and fired a pistol into his ear to cheer
him up. When this failed to attract the Captain's attention, a large
cracker was set fire to under his chair.
One of the groups of pirates, thinking that the band were having far
too peaceable a time, suddenly drew pistols and cutlasses, boarded the
dhow, and put the musicians to the sword, which delighted the fiddlers
very much. There was also dancing during the dinner, for two of the
pirates, wishing to give a real society touch to the function, rose
and performed a wild Tango in and out of the tables. That was not the
only dance, for a fat carver, who wore a conical white cap and white
garments plentifully besprinkled with gore, had stood during the early
stages of dinner and had looked on at the pirates' antics, being much
amused thereat. One of the pirates, thinking that a spectator ought to
have some share in the active work of the fun, seized him and forced
him to dance, and dance the carver did, with such good will that he
finally tired the pirate out, and remained, perspiring and smiling, the
victor in the dance.