Mr. Punch's After-Dinner Stories by J. A. Hammerton and John Leech (top 100 novels TXT) 📗
- Author: J. A. Hammerton and John Leech
Book online «Mr. Punch's After-Dinner Stories by J. A. Hammerton and John Leech (top 100 novels TXT) 📗». Author J. A. Hammerton and John Leech
Why not a phonographic after-dinner speech machine? Celebrities could be represented at any number of banquets.
["An experiment in dinner speeches by telephone is to be tried at Massachusetts Institute."]
[Pg 54]Would-be Considerate Hostess (to son of the house). "How inattentive you are, John! You really must look after Mr. Brown. He's helping himself to everything!"
[Discomfiture of Brown, who, if somewhat shy, is conscious of a very healthy appetite.
[Pg 55]Things One would(n't) rather have left Unsaid.—(In Mrs. Talbot de Vere Skynflynte's drawing-room, after one of her grand dinner-parties where nobody gets enough to eat.) General Guzzleton. "What's that? Tea? No, thanks. I never take tea unless I've dined!"
[Pg 56] PROVERBS FOR BALL AND DINNER GIVERSIces and tea and coffee and small cakes are as good as a feast.
You may bring an amateur tenor up to a piano, but you cannot make him sing.
A lord in the room is worth two dukes in the bush.
In provincial society the lord-lieutenant is king.
Flirtation is the mother of invention.
All good dances lead to the conservatory.
Take care of the rounds, and the squares will look after themselves.
It is a wise waltzer who knows her own step.
A dinner in time saves nine.
When the confectioner comes in by the door the cook flies out by the window.
What is port to your wine merchant is death to your guests.
Keep your champagne dry.
Call a stable-boy by any other name, and he[Pg 58] will resemble the rose under similar circumstances.
You can't make a head butler out of a local greengrocer.
When the soup is cold, the wit flies out.
If you have enough cheap and nasty dishes, some of them must be eaten.
The menu makes the dinner.
Ask Mr. Punch to a really good and well thought-out meal, and you will have an exceptionally lucky man for your guest.
THE SIGH OF THE SEASON
Good-bye dinner, good-bye lunch,
Good-bye turtle, good-bye punch,
Good-bye jambon soaked in cham.,
Good-bye venison, cutlets lamb,
Good-bye salmon, smelts, and sole,
Good-bye Heidsieck's monopole,
Good-bye hock, sauterne, and sherry,
Good-bye all that makes me merry,
Good-bye liqueurs, petit verre,
Good-bye sauce au Vin Madère,
Good-bye all these joys of life,
Good-bye fork, and good-bye knife,
Good-bye all I take when out,
Good-bye then this twinge of gout!
[Pg 57]Our Gallant Colonel. "Your daughters, my dear Mrs. Tympanum, are looking delightful to-night—simply delightful!"
Mrs. Tympanum (rather hard of hearing, and very intent on a rôti of ducklings). "Yes, aren't they! I've had them stuffed with sage and onions!"
[Pg 59]Cruel!—Smith (usually a shy, reserved, and silent man) tells a rather long, but otherwise entertaining, story, about an orange, which meets with great success. Brown (when the laughter and applause have subsided). "Bravo, Smith! Capital, old man! But, I say, you told it better one night at Jones's, a few months ago!" Jones. "No, no! Where he told it best was that morning we breakfasted with you, Brown, somewhere about the beginning of the year before last!" Robinson. "Ah, but don't you recollect the way he told it after that supper I gave you fellows at Evans' in 'fifty-one'? How we did laugh, to be sure!"
[Pg 60]Whose Fault?—Wife (reproachfully). "O, Charles!" (She had returned to the dining-room, wondering why he had not come upstairs to tea.) Charles (who had evidently taken a little too much wine). "V'y well, my dear! 'Sh not my fault! 'Sh your fault! Cooksh fault! 'Bisque soup was salt! Sh'preme d'la V'laille was smoked! And orange frittersh 'tough as leather! What did Capt'n du Cane shay? Bad cookery cause of all sorts o' crimes. 'Shamed of yourshelf!"
[Pg 61]"For when our veins are filled
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls
Than in our priest-like fasts."—Shakspeare: Coriolanus.
After-dinner Criticism.—Guest (who has had a pleasant evening, will just have a look at his host's pictures before he goes). "Yesh—(hic)—'like tha' pictsh're! Fi' lanshc'pe! 'Like the treesh! 'Branshes wave 'bout s' nash'rally!!!"
[Pg 62] DINNER PLATITUDESTwice of soup is vulgar, but three times of soup implies that you must be more than double-plated with vulgarity. Such a thing was never known, not even at the Trinity Board, and turtle is not the slightest excuse for your pushing things to such a vulgar length. An alderman would really blush for you.
A soft answer turneth away wrath, and an invitation to take a glass of wine will frequently restore warmth between two friends where only coldness existed before.
No matter how plain your cook may be, so long as your dinner is well-dressed.
A few compliments go a great way. A little savoury pâté is quite enough. Try too many, and you'll find they'll prove heavy.
When the ladies retire from the dinner-table, it is not usual for you (supposing you to be a gentleman) to retire with them. In this instance, the same law extends to the mistress as to the servants:—"No Followers Allowed."[Pg 64]
A gratuity well bestowed frequently has a happy effect. The servant that is fee'd well takes care that his master does the same.
In the hands of an inferior artiste, whether an omelette turns out good or bad, is quite a matter of toss up. It is the same with a pancake.
Keep ill-natured people from your table, as you would sour fruit. They are sure to disagree with every one. Avoid crab-apples, lest the apple of discord should turn up amongst them.
ODE TO A DINNER-GONG
"The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell."
So said, admiringly, the late Lord Byron,
But he had never heard your noisy knell,
O blatant bellowing thing of brass or iron,
Or surely he had metrically cursed
Your nerve-distracting Corybantic clangour.
Would his fine indignation could have versed
My utter hate, my agonising anger.
Alas! is gusto then so great a sin,
Is feeding man so terrible a sinner
That such a worse than Duncan-raising din
Must summon him to—dinner?
[Pg 63]Down a Peg.—Mr. Gifted Hopkins (minor poet, essayist, critic, golfer, fin-de-siècle idol, &c.). "Oh, Mrs. Smart—a—I've been thinking, for the last twenty minutes, of something to say to you!" Mrs. Smart (cheerfully). "Please go on thinking, Mr. Hopkins,—and I'll go on talking to Professor Brayne in the meantime.
[Pg 65]Past and Present.—Serious and much-married man. "My dear friend, I was astonished to hear of your dining at Madame Troisétoiles!—a 'woman with a past' you know!"
The Friend (bachelor "unattached"). "Well, you see, old man, she got a first-rate chef, so it isn't her 'past,' but her 're-past' that I care about."
[Pg 67]A Connoisseur.—Sir Pompey Bedell. "This bottle of Romanée-conti seems rather cloudy, Brown! It ought to be all right. I know it stands me in twelve guineas a dozen!"
The New Butler. "There certainly his some sediment, Sir Pompey; but it's of no consequence whatever! I tried a bottle of it myself the other day, and found it first-rate!"
[Pg 69]"Hullo, Monty, what have you got in your button-hole? You don't mean to say you've joined the blue ribbon army?"
"Yes; for this night only. Going to dine with Jakes. Don't want to hurt poor old Jakes' feelings—don't want to be poisoned by his beastly wine. See?"
[Pg 71]Repletion.—Robert. "Pudding or cheese, sir?"
Abstracted Editor. "Owing to pressure of other matter, 'regret we are unable to find room for it!"
[Pg 75]Brown (who has been dining at the club with Jones). "Just come in a minute, old fellow, and have a night-cap."
Jones. "I'm afraid it's getting a little late. Let's see how's the enemy."
Brown. "Oh! that's all right. She's in bed."
[Pg 77]Mrs. Fitznoodle (evidently not well versed in the delicacies of a Guildhall feast). "Freddy, dear, can you tell me what is the difference between 'calipash' and 'calipee'?"
Colonel Fitznoodle (hesitating, and looking round for an answer). "Certainly, my dear. Exactly the difference there is between 'Gog' and 'Magog'!"
[Pg 66] DINNERS AND DINERS (With apologies to the P-ll M-ll G-z-tte)It had been my good fortune to give to Mademoiselle Faustine, a charming little actress, a tip for the Welter Plate last spring. What more natural than that I should ask her to give me a dinner as some slight return? She readily accepted, and asked me to name the day. Glancing at the sixth volume of my engagement book, I found my first vacant date was June 18, '97. This was fortunate, as it is hardly possible—except at Voisin's—to get a decent dinner unless you order it a year in advance.
"Where shall we dine?" asked Faustine.
"There is only one place where people do dine," I answered, a little reproachfully. "The Bon Marché. I will order the dinner."
So the place and the date were fixed.
As Faustine was a quarter of an hour late—I had not seen her since our arrangement—I waited[Pg 68] in the alabaster portico of the Bon Marché, chatting amiably to the courteous commissionaire, an old comrade of mine in the Wimbledon days. Jules, the courteous chef, was au désespoir. Why had I not given him more notice? Madame was fifteen minutes late. If he had only known! In a year and fifteen minutes it is possible to cook a dinner. In a year—no. I tried to calm the worthy fellow—an old ally of mine in the Crimean war. In vain; he complained the sardines were spoiling. So I went into the dining-room, nodding courteously to eight princes of the blood, neither of whom appeared, for the moment, to recognise me.
As I seated myself, the entire staff, headed by a brass band, brought me my sardines à l'huile. These are a specialité of the house, and are never—should never be, at least—eaten with the tin. The potage à la potasse was quite excellent. I congratulated the courteous chef, pointing out to him the desirability of mixing, sometimes, a little anti-pyrine into the potassium—both drugs far too rarely used in modern cookery. Then came the question of wine. This I solved for the moment[Pg 70] by ordering two Jeroboams of Stereoscopic Company et Fils; a cuvée of '80, absolutely reservée for my own use. As I had engaged the entire staff of waiters, a crown prince, who was entertaining one of our leading bicyclists, rose to leave, with his guest. I smiled and nodded to them as they passed, which appeared to hasten their departure.
The moulin à vent was delicious, but the dindon décousu I could not pass. No self-respecting gourmet will pass everything at a dinner.
Gontran, the kindly maître d'hôtel, was almost in tears, but I consoled him by observing that the ostriches were cooked to a turn, and the bombe glacée à l'anarchiste faultless.
But my hostess? Where was she? Where was Mademoiselle Faustine? I had quite forgotten her! I beckoned to Hagenbock, the press representative of the restaurant, who informed me she had been dead eight months! I, who read nothing but menus, had omitted to notice this in the papers. I was greatly pained. The shock unnerved me—I could eat no more. Besides, who was now to pay the bill?
I reproduce the bill.[Pg 72]
Couverts, £5. Diners,
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