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Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-1

Chapter 6
Looping

At a Glance

Instructor’s Manual Table of Contents

• Overview

• Objectives

• Teaching Tips

• Quick Quizzes

• Class Discussion Topics

• Additional Projects

• Additional Resources

• Key Terms
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-2

Lecture Notes

Overview
Chapter 6 covers looping structures. Students will learn to create definite and indefinite
loops using the while statement. Next, they will learn to use Java’s accumulating and
incrementing operators. Students will use for loops to create a definite loop and
do…while loops for use when a posttest loop is required. Finally, students will learn
how to create nested loops and how to improve loop efficiency.

Objectives
• Learn about the loop structure
• Create while loops
• Use shortcut arithmetic operators
• Create for loops
• Create do…while loops
• Nest loops
• Improve loop performance

Teaching Tips
Learning About the Loop Structure
1. Define a loop as a structure that allows repeated execution of a block of statements. The
loop body contains the block of statements.

2. Explain the purpose of a loop. Briefly introduce the three loop statements used in Java
that are listed on page 300.

3. Describe scenarios when looping is useful. If possible, equate the loop to a game or
real-life situation.

Teaching Repetition structures are the third and final type of program control structure
Tip along with sequence and decision.

Two Truths and a Lie

1. Discuss the two truths and a lie on page 300.
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-3

Creating while Loops

1. Define a while loop. Discuss that the loop body will continue to execute as long as the
Boolean expression that controls the loop is true.

2. Define a definite loop and an indefinite loop. Explain when each is useful in a
program.

Writing a Definite while Loop

1. Note that a while loop can be used to create a definite loop—one that repeats a
predetermined number of times. A definite loop is controlled by a loop control
variable.

2. Review the flowchart and program statements in Figure 6-2 and Figure 6-4.

3. If practical, code a definite while loop during your lecture.

Teaching Note that the flowchart symbol for a decision—a diamond—is also used in a
Tip loop flowchart.

4. Explain the concept of an infinite loop, as shown in Figure 6-3. Note that it is easy to
make a mistake when programming a loop that results in an infinite loop.

5. Describe the steps to avoid an infinite loop listed on page 302.

Pitfall: Failing to Alter the Loop Control Variable Within the Loop Body

1. Discuss the importance of altering the loop control variable within the body of a loop.

2. Using the code in Figure 6-5, demonstrate the pitfall of forgetting to insert curly braces
around the loop body.

Teaching Remind students that they should attempt to terminate a program that they
Tip believe contains an infinite loop.

Pitfall: Creating a Loop with an Empty Body

1. Using Figure 6-6, point out that a loop can have an empty body. Suggest to your
students that this should be avoided.
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-4

Altering a Definite Loop’s Control Variable

1. Definite loops are sometimes called counter-controlled loops. The loop control
variable must be changed to avoid an infinite loop.

2. Introduce the terms incrementing and decrementing. Figure 6-7 shows a loop
statement in which the loop control variable is decremented each time the loop
executes.

3. Students often think that increments or decrements can only be in steps of 1.

Demonstrate that loops can increment by 1, 2, 3, .5, or whatever value change is
needed.

Teaching It is more common for a loop control variable to be incremented than

Tip decremented.

Writing an Indefinite while Loop

1. Describe an indefinite loop. This type of loop is an event-controlled loop, often

controlled by user input, as seen in the program in Figure 6-8.

2. Note that indefinite loops are also commonly used to validate data. An example is seen
in Figure 6-10.

3. If practical, code an event-controlled loop during your lecture.

Validating Data

1. Define the term validating data. Provide a really good example of why validating data
is important.

2. Examine the shaded loop in Figure 6-10. Be sure to discuss with your class how this
loop functions. Point out that the loop continues to execute while the data is invalid.
The test in validating loops should check for invalid data, not valid data.

3. Code several data validating loops during your lecture.

Teaching Validating data should be a very important topic in your lectures. Students
Tip should get into the habit of validating every input.

Two Truths and a Lie

1. Discuss the two truths and a lie on page 310.
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-5

You Do It
1. Students should follow the steps in the book on pages 310–311 to create a Java
application that uses a loop to validate data entries.

Quick Quiz 1
1. True or False: Within a looping structure, a floating-point expression is evaluated.
Answer: False

2. A(n) ____ loop is one in which the loop-controlling Boolean expression is the first
statement in the loop.
Answer: while

3. To write a definite loop, you initialize a(n) ____, a variable whose value determines
whether loop execution continues.
Answer: loop control variable

4. A loop controlled by the user is a type of ____ loop because you don’t know how many
times it will eventually loop.
Answer: indefinite

5. Verifying user data through a loop is the definition of ____.

Answer: validating data

Using Shortcut Arithmetic Operators

1. Define the terms counting and accumulating.

2. Introduce the shortcut operators used to increment and accumulate values:

add and assign operator +=
subtract and assign operator -=
multiply and assign operator *=
divide and assign operator /=
remainder and assign operator %=

Teaching Ask students to write several equivalent arithmetic statements using the normal
Tip and accumulating operators.

3. Introduce the prefix and postfix increment operators and decrement operators.
Review the program in Figure 6-13 to discuss the use of these operators.

4. Write code during your lectures that uses several of the operators presented in this
section.
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-6

Two Truths and a Lie

1. Discuss the two truths and a lie on page 315.

You Do It
1. Students should follow the steps in the book on pages 315–317 to create a Java
application that uses the prefix and postfix increment operators.

Teaching
Stress the difference between the prefix and postfix operators.
Tip

Creating a for Loop

1. Define a for loop. Emphasize that the for loop is a definite loop. Discuss when the
for loop is appropriate in code. Contrast the for loop with the counter-controlled
definite while loop.

2. Using Figure 6-18, describe the program statements used in a for loop. The three
sections of a for loop are described on page 317. Discuss the different ways these
three sections may be used (listing on pages 318–319).

3. Point out that a for loop with an empty body is not infinite, and can be used to create a
brief pause in your program.

Teaching Remind students that a variable declared within a for loop is only accessible
Tip within the loop and goes out of scope when the loop exits.

Two Truths and a Lie

1. Discuss the two truths and a lie on page 320.

You Do It
1. Students should follow the steps in the book on pages 320–321 to create a Java
application that uses a definite loop.

Learning How and When to Use a do…while Loop

1. Explain that in both of the loop structures introduced in the chapter, while and for,
the body of the loop may not execute because the loop condition is checked before
entering the loop. This is known as a pretest loop.
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-7

2. In contrast, the body of a do…while loop will always execute at least once before the
loop condition is checked. This type of loop is called a posttest loop.

Teaching Provide examples of a situation for which it is desirable to use a pretest loop and
Tip one for which it is desirable to use a posttest loop.

3. Review the flowchart in Figure 6-20 and the program code in Figure 6-21.

4. Note that even though it is not required, it is a good idea to always enclose a single loop
statement within a block.

5. Revisit data validation. Point out that the code in Figure 6-10 asks for input both before
the loop and within the loop. The first input is called a priming input.

6. Recode the shaded portion of Figure 6-10 using a do…while loop. The use of the
do…while loop removes the need for the priming input. Code several other data
validation loops during your lecture.

Two Truths and a Lie

1. Discuss the two truths and a lie on page 324.

Quick Quiz 2
1. The statement count ____1; is identical in meaning to count = count + 1.
Answer: +=

2. The prefix and postfix increment operators are ____ operators because you use them
with one value.
Answer: unary

3. The three elements within the for loop are used to ____, ____, and ____ the loop
control variable.
Answer: initialize, test, update

4. A while loop is a(n) ____ loop—one in which the loop control variable is tested
before the loop body executes.
Answer: pretest

5. The do…while loop is a(n) ____ loop—one in which the loop control variable is
tested after the loop body executes.
Answer: posttest
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-8

Learning About Nested Loops

1. Note that like decision structures, loop structures can be nested inside other loops. This
is shown in a flowchart in Figure 6-23.

2. Make sure that students understand the terms inner loop and outer loop. Also, stress
that any type of loop can be nested within any other type (i.e., a for loop inside a
while loop).

3. An example of a program with nested loops is shown in Figure 6-24.

4. Use the code on page 327 to discuss the importance of placing the inner and outer loops
correctly.

5. Discuss the performance issues involved with using nested loops.

6. Code a nested loop with your class. A classic example is generating a multiplication
table.

Two Truths and a Lie

1. Discuss the two truths and a lie on page 327.

You Do It
1. Students should follow the steps in the book on pages 328–329 to create a Java
application that uses nested loops to print a list of positive divisors.

Loop performance is very important on mobile devices. Improving the

Teaching
performance of a loop will make code execute faster on mobile devices, and
Tip
draw less power.

Improving Loop Performance

1. Discuss simple ways to improve loop performance by using the techniques listed on
page 329.

Avoiding Unnecessary Operations

1. Describe the inefficiency of making a calculation within a loop test expression. An

example of what not to do and how to fix it is shown on page 330.

Considering the Order of Evaluation of Short-Circuit Operators

1. Remind students that when a logical expression such as AND or OR is used, the
expression is only evaluated as far as necessary to determine the true or false
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-9

outcome. It is important to place the condition most likely to terminate the loop first,
especially with an inner loop. An example is shown on page 330.

Comparing to Zero

1. Note that it is faster to perform a comparison to 0 than to another value.

2. The example in Figure 6-27 creates and times two sets of nested do-nothing loops. The
second set of loops will execute faster than the first set of loops.

3. If time permits, execute the code in Figure 6-27 during your lecture.

Employing Loop Fusion

1. Explain the concept of loop fusion, as shown on page 332.

Using Prefix Incrementing Rather than Postfix Incrementing

1. Using prefix incrementing is slightly faster than using postfix incrementing. The code
shown in Figure 6-29 times two do-nothing loops that loop 1 billion times. The first
loop uses postfix loops; the second uses prefix loops.

2. Figure 6-30 proves that over the 1 billion loops, the prefix loop executes about one-
tenth of a second faster.

Figure 6-30 will result in different times depending on your system. The numbers
will likely not impress your students. To make the numbers relevant, calculate
Teaching
the time saved if this code is executed 1,000 times in a day. This saves 100
Tip
seconds, or nearly 3 minutes of processing time per day, or over 1,000 minutes
per year.

Two Truths and a Lie

1. Discuss the two truths and a lie on page 334.

You Do It
1. Students should follow the steps in the book on pages 335–336 to create a Java
application that compares execution times for different loop techniques.

Don’t Do It
1. Review this section, discussing each point with the class.
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-10

Quick Quiz 3
1. When loops are ____, each pair contains an inner loop and an outer loop.
Answer: nested

2. True or False: When you use a loop within a loop, you should always think of the inner
loop as the all-encompassing loop.
Answer: False

3. True or False: Whether you decide to use a while, for, or do…while loop in an
application, you can improve loop performance by making sure the loop does not
include unnecessary operations or statements.
Answer: True

4. Combining loops to improve performance is referred to as ____.

Answer: loop fusion

Class Discussion Topics

1. Under what circumstances would you use a for loop rather than a while loop?

2. Why do you think the Java language provides three different types of loops if all loops
can be written using the while statement?

3. Modern processors run at over 3 GHz and have several cores. Given the speed of
modern computers, why is it still important to discuss performance issues?

Additional Projects
1. Create a Java program that uses nested loops to print out the following:

*
**
***
****
*****

2. A new variation on the for loop called the for each loop was introduced in Java 5.
Using the Internet, find a description of this loop and explain how it is different from a
standard for loop.

3. Create a Java application that prints a checkerboard using nested loops.

Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-11

Additional Resources
1. The while and do-while Statements:
http://download.oracle.com/javase/tutorial/java/nutsandbolts/while.html

2. The for Statement:

http://download.oracle.com/javase/tutorial/java/nutsandbolts/for.html

3. Multiple Choice Java Looping Quiz:

http://mathbits.com/mathbits/java/Looping/MCLooping.htm

4. The For-Each Loop:

http://download.oracle.com/javase/1.5.0/docs/guide/language/foreach.html

5. Java program to demonstrate looping:

www.java2s.com/Code/Java/Language-Basics/Javaprogramtodemonstratelooping.htm

Key Terms
 Accumulating: the process of repeatedly increasing a value by some amount to produce
a total.
 Add and assign operator ( += ): alters the value of the operand on the left by adding
the operand on the right to it.
 Counter-controlled loop: a definite loop.
 Counting: the process of continually incrementing a variable to keep track of the
number of occurrences of some event.
 Decrementing: reducing the value of a variable by 1.
 Definite loop: a loop that executes a specific number of times; also called a counted
loop.
 Divide and assign operator ( /= ): alters the value of the operand on the left by
dividing the operand on the right into it.
 do…while loop: executes a loop body at least one time; it checks the loop control
variable at the bottom of the loop after one repetition has occurred.
 Do-nothing loop: one that performs no actions other than looping.
 Empty body: a block with no statements in it.
 Event-controlled loop: an indefinite loop.
 for loop: a special loop that can be used when a definite number of loop iterations is
required.
 Incrementing: adding 1 to the value of a variable.
 Indefinite loop: one in which the final number of loops is unknown.
 Infinite loop: a loop that never ends.
 Inner loop: contained entirely within another loop.
 Iteration: one loop execution.
 Loop: a structure that allows repeated execution of a block of statements.
 Loop body: the block of statements that executes when the Boolean expression that
controls the loop is true.
Java Programming, Seventh Edition 6-12

 Loop control variable: a variable whose value determines whether loop execution
continues.
 Loop fusion: the technique of combining two loops into one.
 Multiply and assign operator ( *= ): alters the value of the operand on the left by
multiplying the operand on the right by it.
 Outer loop: contains another loop.
 Postfix ++: evaluates a variable and then adds 1 to it.
 Postfix increment operator: another name for postfix ++.
 Posttest loop: one in which the loop control variable is tested after the loop body
executes.
 Prefix ++: adds 1 to a variable and then evaluates it.
 Prefix and postfix decrement operators: subtract 1 from a variable. For example, if b
= 4; and c = b--;, 4 is assigned to c, and then after the assignment, b is decreased
and takes the value 3. If b = 4; and c = --b;, b is decreased to 3, and 3 is
assigned to c.
 Prefix increment operator: another name for prefix ++.
 Pretest loop: one in which the loop control variable is tested before the loop body
executes.
 Priming input: another name for a priming read.
 Priming read: the first input statement prior to a loop that will execute subsequent
input statements for the same variable.
 Remainder and assign operator ( %= ): alters the value of the operand on the left by
assigning the remainder when the left operand is divided by the right operand.
 Subtract and assign operator ( –= ): alters the value of the operand on the left by
subtracting the operand on the right from it.
 Validating data: the process of ensuring that a value falls within a specified range.
 while loop: executes a body of statements continually as long as the Boolean
expression that controls entry into the loop continues to be true.
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
Myopia, and other names which were strange to me; and though
she was quite sure that the boys over in America could whip our
British players every time, still she allowed that they had nothing
there quite like the grey old house with its elms and its water. The
conversion of the little prima donna was commencing.
The sun set, a red ball dipping into the brown heat mist, as we
passed over Barnes Common, and when the little prima donna said
that we had nothing in England like the sunsets over the Hudson, I
felt that on this day, at least, the sun was not behaving well in his
manner of setting.
We came to Richmond Park in the afterglow, and going in through
the Sheen gate, drove through the Park, which was glorified by the
rosy dimness which lingers so long at the close of a hot August day.
The mysterious light was on the great trees and the stretches of
bracken and the rolling distances of sward. The deer were moving
through the fern, and there was a drowsy silence, broken only by
the calling of the birds and the faint hum of the outside world shut
away beyond this fairy paradise. The little prima donna sat with
parted lips and wide-open eyes, drinking in all the scene and
whispering at intervals, "Beautiful! beautiful!" I had no need to ask
her whether there was anything like this in her country across the
ocean.
Presently the bicyclists came drifting down the road in shoals. These
swift, silent travellers put a modern note into the picture of old-time
woodland, and suddenly we came to the iron gates, and the tall,
grey house, and the little prima donna said that her drive through
fairyland had given her an appetite.
The Star and Garter has as many appearances and moods as a
pretty woman. On a Sunday afternoon, when the bicycles are piled
in tens of scores outside the building, when the gravel is crunched
continuously by carriages coming and going, when every table in
both dining-rooms has its full complement of guests, and little
groups stand outside the glass panelling watching for their turn to
come, when the coffee-drinkers sit at the round tables in the
passage, and the terrace is bright with girls' dresses, and rings with
laughter, when far below, the face of the river is crowded with boats,
and a crowd streams along the towing-path, then the Star and
Garter is frankly, merrily Cockney. But on a summer night when the
moon is at the full, when the windows of the ball-room are alight,
and the whisper of a waltz tune comes down to the terrace, when
the river runs a ribbon of silver through the misty landscape, then
the Star and Garter becomes an enchanted palace.
It was a quiet evening on the day that I drove down with the little
prima donna, but had I not telegraphed early in the day we should
not have got the table for two by the open window that looked out
on to the terrace and to the Thames in the valley below.
The little prima donna stood by the window and gazed out. She felt
the charm of the scene, but fought against it, for she was a little
piqued that she had never seen anything quite like it before, that the
United States did not hold its exact parallel. "I guess it is that your
landscapes are so small and so easily filled up that makes them so
different from ours," was her explanation; but that was not what she
meant.
The manager of the restaurant had told me that he had ordered a
little dinner for me, some hors-d'œuvre, petite marmite, red mullet,
tournedos, pommes sautées, a duckling, salad, and some ices; and I
told him that that would do very nicely. The hors-d'œuvre were on
the table, but it was difficult, hungry as she was, to induce the little
prima donna to leave her first view of the river, a river now grown
steel-colour in the growing darkness, and to turn to the prosaic side
of life, and dinner.
It is a comfortable dining-room, with its green curtains to the big
bow-window, its paper with a flower pattern, its mirrors and its great
panes of glass through which the arched looking-glasses of the hall
can be seen. Of our fellow-diners there was no one whose face is
well known to the world. There was a young man with gold buttons
to his coat and a suggestion of the Georgian period in his full head
of hair, who was dining tête-à-tête with a pretty dark-haired lady;
there was a bald-headed gentleman entertaining a family party;
there were three young gentlemen dining by themselves very
merrily; the rest were the people one sees at any good hotel.
The soup was excellent—though why managers of restaurants
always seem to think that petite marmite is the only soup in
existence I do not know; but the prima donna was glad to put down
her spoon and look out of the window again. She had read that
morning, she told me, all the descriptions she could find of
Richmond, in prose and verse; but the real thing was more beautiful
than any description of it had prepared her for. I felt that the
conversion of the little American was progressing.
The fish was not a success. The weather was very hot, and, as the
prima donna put it, "this mullet, I guess, has not been scientifically
embalmed." The waiter, deeply grieved, spirited the fish away, and
put the tournedos, which were excellently cooked, in their place.
The pine outside the window was black now against the sky, and a
chilly breeze came up from the river. The little prima donna felt the
chill, and drew her cloak over her shoulders.
The duck was plump and tender, and when she had trifled with a
wing, the prima donna, hoping that nobody would be horrified,
asked for a cigarette. The ice and coffee and liqueurs finished, I
called for the bill—hors-d'œuvre, 2s.; marmite, 1s. 6d.; tournedos,
4s.; pommes, 1s.; caneton, 8s. 6d.; salade, 1s.; ices, 2s.; coffee,
1s.; one bottle Deutz and Gelderman, 12s. 6d.; cigarettes, 1s.;
liqueurs, 2s. 6d.; couverts, 1s.; total, £1: 18s.—and then suggested
that we should go down on to the terrace. The prima donna leant
over the balustrade, her cigarette making a point of light, and gazed
in silence at the darkened landscape. The river, visible still amidst
the darkness, had caught and held in its bosom the reflections of the
summer stars and of a newborn moon. Presently she threw away the
little roll of paper and tobacco, and began quoting in a low voice—a
speaking voice as musical as singing—the lines of poor Mortimer
Collins's swan song:—
 Stern hours have the merciless fates
Plotted for all who die;
But looking down upon Richmond aits,
Where the merles sing low to their amorous mates,
Who cares to ask them why?
The conversion of the little American was complete.
9th August.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE CAVOUR (LEICESTER SQUARE)

I first met Arthur Roberts in the buffet of the Cavour, and first heard
there the tale of "The Old Iron Pot." On that occasion I was taken by
a friend into the buffet, a long room with a bar decorated with
many-coloured glasses, a broad divan running along the wall, and
many small tables by it. Seated on the divan was a thin, clean-
shaven little man, talking to a very tall man, also clean-shaven. So
immersed in their conversation were the two that they hardly
acknowledged me when I was introduced to them; "they" being
Messrs. Arthur Roberts and "Long Jack" Jervis, both of them then
playing in "Black-eyed Susan" at the Alhambra, almost next door. As
far as I could make out, the entrancing story that Mr. Arthur Roberts
was telling, had as its central figure an old iron pot. He was in
deadly earnest in his recital. Mr. Jervis and my friend were
thoroughly, almost painfully, interested, and accompanied the story
with little exclamations of surprise and sympathy, but for the life of
me I could not follow the narrative. All sorts and conditions of
people suddenly were introduced into the tale by name, and as
suddenly disappeared out of it. Arthur Roberts finished, and the
other two broke into speeches of congratulation, saying how
thoroughly interested and affected they had been. I, in a bewildered
way, commenced to ask questions, when the mouth of the merry
comedian began to twitch up on one side, and his eyelids to blink.
Then I understood. I was another victim to the tale of "The Old Iron
Pot."
It was in this buffet, which remains now as it was then, that Arthur
Roberts invented the game of "spoof,"—but that is a very long story.
There has always been a savour of Bohemianism around the Cavour,
and therefore it was only right and proper that the six of us who sat
down to dinner there one August evening, should all in our time
have wandered through the pleasant paths of the country of free-
and-easiness. With grey hairs has come ballast, and one of the party
is now a great landowner, doing his duty as high sheriff of his
county; two of the others are chairmen of boards controlling great
theatrical enterprises; a fourth, who won renown originally as a
Jehu, now coins money in successful speculation; and the fifth is the
trusted adviser of a well-known plutocrat. One of the chairmen, who
can claim the title of successful dramatic author as well, and is not
unknown on the Stock Exchange, was the giver of the feast. Our
gathering came about through an argument on the relative merits of
cheap and expensive restaurants, and whether there was value
received for the difference in the price of the dinners. The chairman
was a warm upholder of the cheap dinner, and concluded the
argument by saying, "When I go to the Savoy or Princes' I am
prepared to pay for my surroundings and company; when I want
food only I go to Philippe of the Cavour, and ask him to add
something to his three-shilling dinner, and to give me five-shillings-
worth, and if you fellows will come and dine with me there you shall
try for yourselves." And "we fellows" said like one man that we
would.
The Cavour, which shows its clean white face, adorned with golden
letters, to Leicester Square, has grown immensely since I first made
its and M. Philippe's acquaintance. There comes first a narrow little
room, with a big counter on which fruit and flowers and cold meats
are displayed, and behind which a lady in black stands. Here M.
Philippe, shortish, grey-haired, with a little close-clipped moustache,
black coat, and turned-down collar, with a black tie, generally waits
to usher his patrons in, and find them seats. Then comes the big
room, the walls in light colour, brass rails all round to hold hats, on
the many mirrors a notice pasted, "Our table d'hôte Sundays, 6 to
9"; in the centre a big square table with a palm in the middle of it,
the table at which, when the room is crowded, lone gentlemen are
set to take their dinner, and around the big table a cohort of smaller
tables. The ceiling mostly consists of a skylight, the windows in
which always keep the room cool. Beyond this room is another one,
newly built, also light in colour, and with many mirrors.
As soon as we were seated, M. Philippe came bustling up. He is a
very busy man, for he believes in the adage as to doing things well;
and, therefore, he is up at five every morning, and goes the round of
the markets, and in his own restaurant is his own maître d'hôtel. Yet,
busy as he is, he finds time to devote much attention to
Freemasonry, and his list of subscriptions to the various Masonic
charities has generally the biggest total of any sent in. He was
supposed in this charitable competition to have been, on one
occasion, outstripped by another worker in the cause, and we
immediately began to chaff him on the subject. M. Philippe
acknowledged that a march had been stolen on him; but to make up
for it he had been eminently successful in securing the admission of
a little girl to one of the masonic institutions. "She got in on top of
our poll," was his way of putting it. The feast he had prepared for us
was as follows:—

Hors-d'œuvre.
La petite marmite.
Filets de soles Mornay.
Whitebait.
Poulet sauté Portugaise.
Côtes de mouton en Bellevue.
Canetons d'Aylesbury.
Petits pois Française. Salade. Haricots verts.
 Fromages.
Dessert.

I noted that the petite marmite—I seem doomed always to be given

petite marmite—was good, and was more enthusiastic than that over
the fillets of sole, for those, I thought, were "very good." The
whitebait, erring on the right side, were a trifle too soft. The poulet
sauté Portugaise was a triumph of bourgeois cookery, but so rich
that I was glad that the good doctor who takes an interest in the
state of my liver was not one of our party. The Aylesbury ducklings
were fine, plump young fellows, who must have lived a youth of
peace and contentment. We drank with this substantial dinner some
'89 Pommery.
There is always a bustle at the Cavour, and a coming and going of
guests. Directly a table is vacated plates and glasses are whisked
away, fresh napkins spread, and in a few seconds M. Philippe has
personally conducted some incoming guests to their seats. The table
d'hôte is served from five to nine. First to the feast comes a
sprinkling of actors and actresses, making an early meal before
going to the theatre. Then comes an incursion of white-shirt-fronted
gentlemen and ladies in evening dress, dining before going to the
play. Lastly comes the steady stream of ordinary diners, good
bourgeois most of them, who choose to dine as they have come
from their City offices, in frock-coats or other unostentatious garb.
As we settled down to our meal, a theatrical manager, who had been
giving one of the prettiest ladies of his company dinner, was leaving.
A well-known amateur coachman, just up from the country, had time
to give his wife something to eat before going off to catch another
train; a white-bearded gentleman was entertaining two pretty
daughters in evening dresses, and was desperately afraid that they
would not get to the theatre in time to see the curtain rise. A very
pretty lady, with a hat of peacocks' feathers and a great bow rising
from it, was an actress "resting." The rest of the diners who filled
the room were all good, respectable citizens and citizenesses, in fine
broadcloth and silk, but none of their faces was familiar to us
through the pages of the illustrated papers.
This was the bill paid by the chairman:—Six dinners at 5s., £1: 10s.;
three bottles Pommery, '89, £2: 2s.; one seltzer, 6d.; five cafés, 2s.
6d.; six liqueurs, 4s. 6d.; total, £3: 19: 6.
M. Philippe has a little pleasure-ground attached to the restaurant, a
plot of kitchen garden and an orangery, the vegetables and herbs
and fruit from which must cost him about a thousand times their
value at Covent Garden. But it is Philippe's hobby, and he likes to be
able to give any favoured customer a bunch of mignonette grown in
a garden within thirty yards of Leicester Square. At night the blazing
cressets of the Alhambra and the gas decorations of Daly's light this
strange little bit of rus in urbe, and when one wonders at a practical
man keeping such desirable building land for such a purpose, M.
Philippe shrugs his shoulders and says, "The earth he grow every
day more valuable."
16th August.

CHAPTER XXIX
THE CAFÉ ROYAL (REGENT STREET)

My sister-in-law is the daughter of a dean. I do not make this

statement through family pride, but because it is pertinent to what
follows.
Man and boy, these six years or so, I have known little Oddenino,
who now rules the destinies of the Café Royal. The little man, with
his quiet, rather nervous manner and big serious eyes, went from
the management of the East Room at the Criterion to the
Washington in Oxford Street, then to the big hotel at Cimiez, and
has now put the Café Royal into shape.
During the summer of 1897, I was one day, towards lunch-time,
pacing up and down the passage which leads from the pillared door
in Regent Street to the café and grill-room portion of the big
establishment, a passage which has on one side the bookstall where
the French papers are on sale, and on the other the manager's
offices, when a door opened and Oddenino appeared. I asked him
what he was doing in the Café Royal, and he told me that he had
come as manager. Then he put his head on one side and considered
me. With the utmost politeness he suggested that I was waiting for
a lady, a soft impeachment which I admitted, and that I was not in
the best of tempers, which was also true. He was deeply grieved,
but tried to console me by saying that when I came back to town in
the autumn I should find a comfortable room upstairs to wait in, and
went on to tell me of the other improvements he intended to make.
One great grief he had, and that was that some people thought that
the company that frequented the restaurant was rather Bohemian.
How anybody could think so, I told him, I could not understand, and
as a triumphant proof of this I told Oddenino that the first lady
whom I would bring to dine in the redecorated restaurant should be
my sister-in-law, the daughter of a dean.
In the autumn the opportunity arrived for carrying out my promise.
My brother was away slaughtering many driven partridges in
Wiltshire, and my sister-in-law—did I mention that she is the
daughter of a dean?—was left in solitary dignity in town. I went in
the afternoon of the day we were going to dine to apprise Oddenino
of our impending visitation—that word has a comforting clerical
sound—and to order dinner.
My sister-in-law is not partial to shellfish, so the oysters with which I
should have begun the feast were not to be thought of, nor were
most of the most delicate ways of cooking a sole to be considered.
My sister-in-law has always said that my idea of a perfect dinner is
semi-starvation, so I included two entrées instead of one in the
menu. This was the dinner which I, in consultation with Oddenino,
settled upon:—
 Hors-d'œuvre Russe.
Pot au feu.
Sole Waleska.
Noisette d'agneau Lavallière.
Haricots verts à l'Anglaise.
Parfait de foie gras.
Caille en cocotte.
Salade.
Pole nord.

When I suggested an ice, and Oddenino wrote down pole nord, I

asked him what particular ice that meant. It was only a cream ice
served on a pedestal of clear ice, he said; but he thought that pole
nord to end a menu sounded grand and mysterious.
I should, out of compliment to my sister-in-law, have liked to have
driven up to the Café Royal in an equipage such as dignitaries of the
Church use, with a hammer-cloth and a white-wigged coachman;
but a humble coupé had to suffice.
We went up the staircase, which has been regilt and refurbished,
and has more flowers and plants than of yore, and into the little
waiting-room at the top of the stairs, which Oddenino had promised
to have built for me to save wear and tear of my temper. It is not a
very large waiting-room, a promise only of better things to come, a
slice of the first of the big rooms partitioned off by a screen of
mirrors. Some easy-chairs look comforting even to a hungry man,
and, no doubt, not only my temper, but that of others, will profit by
it in the future. A table had been kept for us in the first room, and
when my sister-in-law had settled down she began looking carefully
at the diners at the other tables. I asked if there was any one whom
she expected to see, and was told that she was looking for the
actresses I had promised to point out to her. Our table commanded
a fine view of the room we were in and the big room, the windows
of which look on to Glasshouse Street. There was scarcely a vacant
table, but nowhere could I see an actress to point out to my sister-
in-law. There was a celebrated doctor, clean-shaven and with white
hair, dining tête-à-tête with his wife; there was a well-known
barrister, invincible in licensing cases, who was giving a dinner to his
wife and daughter; there was a big dinner-party of men all hailing
from the Stock Exchange; there was a smart little lady talking
hunting to three entranced youths; but nowhere could I see a face
that I recognised as belonging to an actress.
My sister-in-law thought that she had been defrauded, but luckily
the fat waiter, an old ally of mine, appeared at the right moment
with the caviar, and the sommelier was anxious to know whether I
would have the Clicquot vin rosée, which poor M. Nicol used to say
was the best champagne in the cellar, iced. My sister-in-law
approved highly of the soup, and indeed it was excellent, simple and
strong. Then came the sole Waleska, and I was anxious to see
whether my sister-in-law—who, I have omitted to state, is the
daughter of a dean—appreciated the delicacy of the sauce and the
almost imperceptible flavouring of cheese. She did, and I forgave
her on the spot for not liking oysters. The noisette d'agneau was not
quite on a par with the glory of the remainder of the dinner, for the
tiny morsels of lamb, the foundation of the plat, might have been
more tender; but I am sure that if the dear departed geese of
Strassburg could have looked upon their livers, placed snugly in a
great terrine, to which the blocks of truffle gave a half-mourning
effect, and covered decently with a fair coating of transparent jelly,
they would have been consoled for all their over-eating and
subsequent demise.
At this period of our dinner little Oddenino came up, and I asked him
to point out some of the alterations to my sister-in-law. He showed
her the new lamps, which cast a pleasant rosy light on the tables;
the new carpet; sent the maître d'hôtel to fetch samples of the new
china and glass and silver which by now have been taken into use;
explained how the kitchen, which is under the rule of M. Charles,
has been doubled in size; and how the serving arrangements, which
of old were coram populo, and carried out with an accompaniment
of shrill female voices and much clashing of plates, were now safely
concealed behind a wall of mirrors. I told Oddenino that I thought
that even now too much noise came through the open door which
leads to the serving-room; for I hold a really good dinner to be so
sublime a thing that the homage of absolutely silent attendance is
due to it; and the little man, looking suddenly as sorrowful as if he
had lost a near relation, promised to have swing doors put up, so
that not a whisper should penetrate to the dining-rooms.
The quails were delicious. Their flesh almost melted in one's mouth,
as my sister-in-law remarked. When the pole nord came the ice
proved not to be an ordinary one, but a semi-fluid delicacy cased in
harder cream ice. The ice pedestal was in the shape of a bird resting
on rocks, and when I made a feeble little jest about Andrée's
pigeons my sister-in-law laughed. I reproved her austerely, telling
her that if she laughed thus she would be taken for an actress.
Whereon she retorted that she did not want to be taken for an
actress, but that she wanted to be one. I opened my eyes in a
query, and she said that if actresses were given every night such a
dinner as she had eaten she wanted to be an actress.
I paid my bill while my sister-in-law admired the beautiful flower-
decked Minton china, a trayful of which was brought to her, the
glasses with a golden N and a crown on them and the heavy silver.
The bill was: two couverts, 1s.; hors-d'œuvre, 2s.; pot au feu, 2s.;
sole Waleska, 3s. 6d.; suprême d'agneau, 3s. 6d.; haricots verts, 1s.
6d.; parfait de foie gras, 4s.; caille cocotte, 5s.; salade, 1s.; pole
nord, 2s. 6d.; café, 1s. 6d.; one bottle '67, 15s.; liqueurs, 2s.; total,
£2: 4: 6.
I told my sister-in-law that if we were not to miss the first act of the
play we were going to see, we had better be going, so she laid down
the straw through which she had been sucking her crème de
menthe, and with a sigh, a tribute of remembrance to the quails, put
on her gloves.
I have now a sister-in-law who is the daughter of a dean, but who
wants to become an actress.
 1st November.

Since writing the above the Café Royal has definitely taken its place
once again as one of the first-class restaurants of London. Little
Oddenino has continued making improvements, putting in a lift,
making a cloak-room, and adding generally to the comfort of the
place.
I asked the little man to send me the menu of a dinner given to the
late Mr. "Barney" Barnato before he started on his ill-starred journey
to the Cape, and also to ask M. Charles to give me the recette of the
soles Waleska. M. Oddenino sent me a menu, which is a good
specimen of a Café Royal dinner for a large party; but which I do not
recognise as the Barnato menu, and also the recette for filets de sole
St-Augustin—named after him, for his "front name" is August—the
very latest delicacy in fish.
Here are menu and recette—

Solera 1852 Hors-d'œuvre Russe

Huîtres natives
Consommé Prince de Galles
Turbotin à la Polignac
Veuve Clicquot 1889 Suprême de volaille à la Montpensier
Côtelette d'agneau de lait à la Régence
Corbeille de pommes soufflée
Giesler 1884 Parfait de foie gras
Extra dry Bécassine rôtie sur canapé
Salade de cœur de laitue
Château Lafite 1875 Nageoires de tortue à l'Américaine
Asperges nouvelles Anglaise. Sauce
Martinez 1863
mousseline.
Ananas glacé
 Soufflé au fromage
Grande Fin
Corbeilles de fruits
Champagne,
Waterloo 1815 Café

Here is the recette of the filets de sole St-Augustin, to which both M.

Charles, the chef, and M. Oddenino, its godfather, have set their
signature—

Recettes de filets de sole St-Augustin

Prenez une belle sole bien fraîche, enlevez-en les filets, pliez-les en
deux, mettez-les dans une casserole avec un morceau de beurre,
sel, poivre et un bon verre de champagne.
Faites cuire les filets de sole, aussitôt prêts retirez-les et faites
réduire la cuisson aux trois-quarts, ensuite ajoutez-y une demie-
pinte de crème et laissez réduire un moment le tout ensemble.
Mettez à part dans une casserole vingt-quatre queues d'écrevisses
avec une truffe fraîche emmincie, un peu de beurre, sel et poivre,
faites chauffer le tout doucement et mélangez ensuite votre sauce
avec la garniture.
Dressez les filets de sole sur un plat rond, saucez par dessus,
ajoutez un peu de fromage rapé pardessus, faites glacer au four et
servez très chaud.

Take a large, perfectly fresh sole. Fillet it. Fold the fillets in two, and
put them in a saucepan, with a piece of butter, salt, pepper, and a
glassful of champagne. Let the fillets cook until they are done, then
take them out, and boil down the stock to three-quarters, then add
to it half a pint of cream, and boil it all down together, for a
moment. In another saucepan (a silver one), put the tails of twenty-
four crayfish, with a truffle, freshly cut up, a little butter, and a little
salt and pepper. Let this get hot very slowly, and mix your sauce
with the garnish. Arrange the fillets of sole on a round dish and
glaze them over. Serve very hot.

CHAPTER XXX

FRASCATI'S (OXFORD STREET)

I am beginning to flatter myself that I am a success in clerical

circles. One week I took out to dinner my sister-in-law—who, I
omitted to state, is the daughter of a dean; and the next week I
successfully entertained a dear, simple-minded, white-haired old
clergyman who had come from his parish in the North to London on
business.
Two little boys home from Harrow are sitting at a table by an open
window, looking through the frame of rose sprays and streamers of
virginia-creeper to the turn of the road in the foreground, where the
black wood of the sun-dial, put up to commemorate the battle of
Waterloo, stands out against the rose red of the old brick wall
behind it, where one of the posts of the village stocks still exists as a
warning to evildoers, with beyond, in the middle distance, the great
horse-chestnuts and the village cricketing ground, which serves as a
promenade for the postmaster's geese. The whole landscape is
closed in by a great forest of firs, on the outskirts of which red roofs
and the tarnished gold of thatch chequer the dark green. Behind the
two little boys stands a curate fresh from Oxford, who is trying to
hammer into their thick little heads the translation of
 ——cur apricum
oderit campum——
his own thoughts all the time, like theirs, being on the cricket-
ground, and not with Quintus Horatius Flaccus. That is the picture
that always comes to me when I think of my old clerical friend.
He was a keen cricketer, and bowled underhand with a cunning
break from the off which was too much for the yokels of the teams
that our village eleven annually held battle with; and those daily two
tiresome hours over, our holiday task done, he would bowl, at the
net put up in the neighbouring field, as long as we chose to bat. His
one dissipation now is a visit to London annually to see the Oxford
and Cambridge cricket-match, and he always stays when he comes
to London at my mother's house. Unexpected business had brought
him south last week, and one evening he would have been alone
had I not offered to take him out somewhere.
Where to take him was a puzzle. I did not think that he would
appreciate the delicacy of Savoy, or Cecil, or Prince's, or Verrey's
cookery; the refinements of the Berkeley and the Avondale, and the
light touch of M. Charles's hand would be as naught to him. Luckily I
remembered that last July he had been taken to dine at Frascati's,
by a friend and old parishioner of his, and that the place and the
dinner had made so great an impression on him that his
conversation for the next day consisted chiefly of praise of the
gorgeous palace in which he had been entertained. If Frascati's had
proved such a success once, I saw no reason why it should not be
so again, and suggested that we should dine there, a suggestion
which met with decided approval; so I telegraphed to ask that a
table might be reserved for me upstairs.
My previous experiences of Frascati's had been chiefly confined to
the grill-room, a gorgeous hall of white marble, veined with black,
with a golden frieze and a golden ceiling, where I often eat a
humble chop or take a cut from the joint before going to listen to
Dan Leno or some other mirth-provoker at the Oxford next door; but
looking at the great restaurant after we had settled down into our
seats I could quite understand that the building would appear as
gorgeous as a pantomime transformation-scene to the eyes of any
one not blasé by our modern nil admirari London. There are gold
and silver everywhere. The pillars which support the balcony, and
from that spring up again to the roof, are gilt, and have silver angels
at their capitals. There are gilt rails to the balcony, which runs, as in
a circus, round the great octagonal building; the alcoves that stretch
back seem to be all gold and mirrors and electric light. What is not
gold or shining glass is either light buff or delicate grey, and electric
globes in profusion, palms, bronze statuettes, and a great dome of
green glass and gilding all go to make a gorgeous setting. The
waiters in black, with a silver number in their button-holes, hover
round the tables; somewhere below a string band, which does not
impede conversation, plays. My old tutor rubbed his hands gently
and smiled genially round at the gorgeousness, while I told the light-
bearded manager that what I required was the ordinary table-d'hôte
dinner, and picked out a Château Margaux from the long lists of
clarets.
This was the menu of the table-d'hôte dinner:

Hors-d'œuvre variés.
Consommé Brunoise.
Crème Fontange.
Escalope de barbue Chauchat.
Blanchaille.
Filet mignon Victoria.
Pommes sautées.
Riz de veau Toulouse.
Faisan rôti au cresson.
Salade.
Pouding Singapore.
Glacé vanille.
Fromage. Fruits.
A platter divided into radiating sections held a great variety of hors-
d'œuvre, the rosy shade of the lamp threw its light upon a
magnificent bunch of grapes on the summit of a pile of other fruits,
and the manager in the background kept a watchful eye upon the
waiter who was putting the consommé Brunoise on the table. I could
not help wondering whether my telegram had not in some way
divulged the fact that I carried a fork under the banner of the Press,
and that I was getting in consequence a little better treatment than
the ordinary. Certainly my bunch of grapes looked like the one that
the Israelitish spies brought back from Canaan, in comparison with
the ones on the other tables, and the chef had no niggard hand
when he apportioned the truffles and little buttons of mushrooms to
our dishes of the escalope de barbue and the riz de veau Toulouse.
My old tutor was considering the diners at the other tables
benignantly, and having quite an unjustifiable belief that I know the
face or everybody in London, asked me who they were. Whether we
had come to dine on an exceptional night I do not know, but all our
fellow-guests were in couples: the men, I should fancy, principally
gentlemen who spend their days in offices in the City, or in banks,
fine specimens, most of them, of young England; and the ladies with
them, either their wives or ladies who will eventually honour them
by becoming so, as handsome representatives of British womanhood
as I have ever seen collected under one roof. Out of all this
gathering of stalwart men and pretty ladies there was not a single
face that I recognised, and I am afraid I went down in the good old
man's estimation as being a walking dictionary of London celebrities.
My old tutor said that the escalope de barbue was excellent, and it
certainly looked good. I tried the whitebait, and found it too dry. The
fillet was good. The chef had surrounded the riz de veau with
truffles and tiny mushrooms and many other good things, and my
old tutor, who ate it, said that it was excellent.
The little tables on the ground floor had all filled by now, and the
lady behind the long bar, with piles of plates on it, and with a long
line of looking-glasses behind it reflecting many bottles, was very
busy. A subdued hum of talking and the faint rattle of knives and
forks against crockery mixed with the music of the band.
The pheasant was a fine plump bird; the ice was excellent. I insisted
on my old tutor having a glass of port to end his dinner, and after
much pressing—for one glass of wine is all he allows himself as a
rule at a meal—he was over-persuaded. Then he rubbed his hands
and beamed, and told me stories of his own schoolboyhood: how he
once fought another boy, now a Colonial Governor, and smote him
so severely on the nose that it bled; and of a dreadful escapade,
which still weighs on his mind—nothing less than going to see a
race-meeting, and being subsequently soundly birched.
This was the bill I paid:—Two dinners at 5s., 10s.; one bottle 6A, 7s.;
half-bottle 61, 5s. 6d.; total, £1: 2: 6.
My old tutor went away with his enthusiasm of the summer still
unimpaired; and when next I have a country cousin to take out to
dinner I shall go to Frascati's.
8th November.

CHAPTER XXXI
THE FREEMASONS' TAVERN (GREAT QUEEN STREET)

The Victory Chapter of the Knights of the Pelican and the Eagle,
perfect and puissant princes of Rose Croix, has been closed, and
gentlemen in evening clothes are being helped into their great-coats
in the entrance corridor of Mark Masons' Hall by the rotund sergeant
who keeps guard there in a glazed box. Most of these gentlemen
have mysterious flat tin cases, which they hand over to the sergeant
or another official to be taken care of for them until spring brings
round again another meeting of the Chapter.
There is no unnecessary waiting in the Mark Masons' Hall, for it is
now a quarter-past seven, and dinner has been ordered next door,
at the Freemasons' Tavern, at seven. A few yards of pavement only
lie between the lamps of Mark Masons' Hall and the glass shelter
before the doors of the Tavern, and in twos and threes the
gentlemen in evening dress hurry from one door to the other.
Great Queen Street is quite a Masonic quarter, for opposite to the
Tavern are two shops in which there is a brave show of Masonic
jewellery, great candelabra, pillars, swords, highly-coloured pictures,
and other adjuncts of Masonry. A humble house of refreshment,
which also appeals to Freemasons for custom, faces the Tavern. The
Tavern is not what the name implies. It is a restaurant, with a public
dining-room, with a fine ballroom, and with many private dining-
rooms. Its outside is imposing. Two houses stand side by side. One
is of red brick, with windows set in white stone, and is Elizabethan in
appearance. The other, of grey stone, is of a style of architecture
which might be called "Masonic." From the pillars of the second
story there rises an arch on which are carved the figures of the
zodiac. In front of this are stone statues representing four of the
Masonic virtues, of which Silence, with her finger on her lip, is the
most easily identified. In all the details of the building there is some
reference to Freemasonry and its attributes.
At the entrance to the Tavern stand two great janitors. Facing the
doorway, at the end of a wide hall, is a long flight of stairs broken by
a broad landing and decorated with statues. Up and down this ladies
and gentlemen are passing, and I ask one of the janitors what is
going on in the ballroom. "German Liederkranz. Private
entertainment. What dinner, sir? Victory Chapter. Drawing-room," is
the condensed information given by the big man, and he points a
white-gloved hand to a passage branching off to the right. On one
side of the passage is a door leading into a bar where three ladies in
black are kept very busy in attending to the wants of thirsty
Freemasons. On the other side is a wide shallow alcove in the wall
fitted with shelves and glazed over, and in this is a curious collection
of plate, great salvers, candelabra, and centrepieces. Beside the
alcove is a glass door, and outside it is hung a placard with "Gavel
Club. Private" upon it. At the end of the passage a little staircase
leads up to higher regions, and on the wall is an old-fashioned clock
with a round face and very plain figures, and some oil paintings dark
with age.
On the first landing there is a placard outside a door with "Victory
Chapter" on it, and higher up outside another door another placard
with "Perfection Chapter" on it. From the stream of guests and
waiters which is setting up the stairs it is evident that there are
many banquets to be held to-night.
The drawing-room is white-and-gold in colour. Four Corinthian
pillars, the lower halves of which are painted old-gold colour, with
gold outlining the curves of their capitals, support a highly-
ornamented ceiling, the central panel of which is painted to
represent clouds, with some little birds flitting before them. The
paper is old-gold in colour with large flowers upon it. There is some
handsome furniture in the room—a fine cabinet, a clock of elaborate
workmanship, and some good china vases. The curtains to the
windows are of red velvet. At the end of the room farthest from the
door is a horseshoe table with red and white shaded candles on it,
ferns, chrysanthemums, and heather in china pots, pines, and
hothouse fruits, and at close intervals bottles of champagne and
Apollinaris. At the other end of the room, where stands a piano, with
a screen in front of it, the gentlemen in evening clothes are chatting,
having put their coats and hats on chairs and piano wherever room
can be found. The waiters, in black with white gloves, are putting
the last touches to the decorations.
Dinner is announced; a move is made to the table, and each man
finds his place marked for him. There is a precedence in
Freemasonry, as at Court, and this is adhered to in arranging the
places at table.
The Victory is a Chapter which is very much in touch with the army
and navy, and looking round the table, the company, but for the
sombreness of their attire—for one or two Orders at the buttonhole,
and here and there a decoration at the throat, are the only spots of
colour—might be hosts and guests at some military mess dinner. The
"Most Wise," who sits at the head of the table, does not belong to
either of the services, but on one side of him is the heir to a
dukedom, who led at one time a troop of the Household Cavalry, and
on the other one of the most popular of our citizen soldiers, equally
at home on parade as in his civic chair when Master of one of the
City Companies. These are flanked again by a well-known brigade-
surgeon and a cheery Admiralty official. The gentleman who has just
said grace, in two Latin words, left very pleasant recollections behind
him when as ex-Lord Mayor he left the Mansion-House. All round the
table are faces with the sharp soldierly cut or naval bluffness.
The "Grand Secretary" has ordered the dinner, and in the whole
length and breadth of the world that hospitable Freemasonry covers,
no man knows better how to construct a menu than he does:—

Crevettes.
Tortue clair.
Filets de sole Meunière.
Vol-au-vent aux huîtres natives.
Faisan Souvaroff.
Selle de mouton.
Céleri braisé Bordelaise.
Laver. Pommes Parisienne.
Poularde rôtie.
Lard grillé. Salade.
Bombe glacée Duchesse.
Os à la moëlle.
Dessert. Café.

I have eaten some good dinners at the Freemasons' Tavern, and

others not so good. To-night the cook is not up to his best form, and
has not responded to the inspiration of the menu. The turtle soup is
not like that of the excellent Messrs. Ring and Brymer, or that of Mr.
Painter; the faisan Souvaroff is dry, and the cook's nerve has failed
him when the truffles had to be added; but, on the other hand, the
sole Meunière and the vol-au-vent are admirable, and the marrow-
bones are large and scalding-hot.
The genial old custom of taking wine is part of all Masonic dinners,
and after the "Most Wise" has drunk to the other guests, much
friendly challenging takes place. The marrow-bones having been
disposed of, the ex-Lord Mayor, the Chaplain of the Chapter, says a
grace as short as that before meat, and then follow the loyal toasts.
It is the custom of the Chapter that speeches should be short, and
the toasts of Her Majesty and the Prince of Wales, and the few
Masonic toasts that follow, occupy very little time. Then the cigars
are lit, and the formal order at table is broken up and little knots are
formed.
One by one the guests who have an appointment elsewhere, or who
are going to the theatre, say good-night and go off; but a remnant
still remain, and these make an adjournment to a cosy little
clubroom on the top story of Freemasons' Hall, where good stories
are told, and soda-water-bottle corks pop until long after midnight.
15th November.

There is a small Masonic dining-club, called the Sphinx Club, which

dines at the Freemasons' Tavern, and which I mention because the
dinner I last ate in company with my brother Sphinxes was one of
the best efforts of the chef and of the manager Mons. Blanchette—
which means that it was very good indeed. The club was founded as
an antidote to the large amount of soft soap that Freemasons
habitually plaster each other with in after-dinner speeches. No
Sphinx is allowed to say anything good of any brother Sphinx, and
when a candidate is put up for the club his proposer says all the ill
he knows or can invent about his past life. A candidate can only
become a member of the club by being unanimously blackballed. It
is needless to say that the best of temper and good fellowship is the
rule amongst the Sphinxes, and the Freemasons' Tavern seems to
always have a very good dinner for them. This was the menu of
their last banquet—

Huîtres.
Tortue clair.
Rouget à la Grenobloise.
Caille à la Souvaroff.
Agneau rôti. Sauce menthe.
Choux de mer. Pommes noisettes.
Bécasse sur canapé.
Pommes paille. Salade de laitues.
Os à la moëlle.
Petit soufflé glacé rosette.
Fondu au fromage.
Dessert.
Café.

CHAPTER XXXII

SCOTT'S (PICCADILLY CIRCUS)

He was the junior subaltern when I commanded H company in the

old regiment, and a very good subaltern he was. It was only the
other day that I read how in one of the first skirmishes in an Indian
trouble he had distinguished himself by standing over a wounded
man and keeping off the hillmen till assistance came; and it seemed
strange to meet him now in crumpled, sun-scorched clothes, with a
soft handkerchief round his neck, and with a very thin white face,
walking up the Haymarket.
"They hit me, you know," he said, in answer to a question. "The
wound in my shoulder healed directly, but the wound in the neck
gave a lot of trouble, and the doctors packed me home as soon as
they could."
I particularly wanted to hear of the deed that the boy had done, and
asked him to come and dine at a club; but his dress clothes were
stored away somewhere in the Punjab—where, he did not know—
with the heavy baggage of the regiment, and his London tailor had
not made him new ones yet. Besides, he would not be able to put on
a collar for weeks, perhaps months, and though he would be glad to
dine quietly with me, he asked that it might be somewhere where he
would not feel uncomfortable at not being in dress clothes. We were
standing at the top of the Haymarket, my eye caught the two great
smoked salmon hung up in Scott's window, and I asked the junior
subaltern if oysters and a lobster à l'Américaine were to his taste.
He had not eaten any oysters, except the Karachi ones, which are
brought in ice to the towns of the Punjab, since he left England six
years ago; and though he did not know what his surgeon and doctor
would say to his eating lobster, he was prepared to risk their wrath.
Half-past seven was the hour I appointed to meet him, and then I
went into Scott's to secure a table and to order dinner.
Scott's, springing from its ashes, has become a gorgeous place, with
pillars of some material which looks like black marble inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, with stained glass and much ornamentation in
worked brass, and with a great plate-glass window which displays a
show of ice and fish and lobsters and crabs and salad-stuff that
looks most appetising.
Inside, it may be said to be divided into four parts. There is the wide
entrance hall, at either side of which are marble counters with many
plates and little bottles upon them, and piles of sandwiches made
with fish delicacies, and piles of slices of brown bread and butter.
Behind the counters stand men in white samite, who are constantly
opening oysters, and behind them are mirrors with, on shelves
above the glass, piles of little kegs which suggest how suitable a
small barrel of oysters is as a Christmas present. In the midst of this
entrance hall sacred to the oysters a staircase leads down to the
lower regions, "The Dive," as it is labelled, where there are
comfortable curved divans with a little table as the pearl in the midst
of these brown leather shells, and on the walls a Japanese fantasy in
tiles where strange fish swim in and out of weeds. Upstairs on the
first floor are the regular dining-rooms with red blinds, red shades to
the electric lamps, and a warm red paper; and behind the hall, with
its oyster bars, is the grill-room, shut off from draughts by a great
screen of glass and brown wood which reaches from floor to ceiling.
I ordered our dinner in the grill-room. A dozen of oysters, some
mock-turtle soup, homard à l'Américaine, and a steak.
At 7.30 to the second the junior subaltern was there, and I smiled
inwardly as I recognised the cut of the Calcutta tailor in his black
coat, well creased by having been jumped on to make it fit into a
bullock trunk.
I took him into the grill-room, where the manager had kept a corner
table for us, and after a look round at the neat little room, with its
mirrors framed in white marble veined with black; its red marble
pilasters with gilt capitals; its grill, at which the white-clothed cook,
with a table of chops and steaks at his elbow, stands; its little glass
case in the corner, in which a lady in black keeps accounts in big
books; its stained glass skylight; its yellowish-brown cornice with
many figures upon it; its many little tables at which stolid and
respectable citizens were giving their wives dinners, or, if alone,
were reading the evening papers: he turned his attention to his
oysters.
The first time that a man tastes a native oyster after six years of
exile is a solemn moment, and I would not disturb him while he ate
them; but when there were only empty shells on his plate, and he
had drunk his glass of Chablis, I began to ask questions.
"Tell me all about that day on the spur I have read of, and how you
came to be recommended for the V.C.," I said.
The junior subaltern took a great gulp of the mock turtle and began.
"You remember J. Smith—he was a lance-corporal when you
commanded the company." "Corporal," I amended. "Well, corporal.
He did ripping well that day. He's colour-sergeant of the company
now, and there was one time when, as we were retiring, some of the
devils got right on our flank and enfiladed us. Well, Colour-Sergeant
Smith just gave one yell and went for them, and old Kelly, who used
to be your bat-man, and Pat Grady went with him, and they killed six
of the Mamunds."
"My boy," I said, "I want to know what you did, and not what
Colour-Sergeant Smith did."
"This is ripping good soup," said the subaltern.
It was very good soup. The cook, divining that I had an invalid as a
guest, had put a liberal mixture of real turtle with the mock turtle,
and it was practically turtle soup. I had sipped the Beaune, and
found it a little tart, and the manager brought us a fresh bottle
before I opened my second parallel with the advent of a really
splendid dish of lobster.
"I want to know now," I said, with a touch of the manner with which
I used to ask him if all the entries in the small books of his half-
company were brought up to date, "what happened when you stood
over that wounded man, and three big hairy hillmen all made a rush
at you at once, and got to close quarters before the men could get
back to bayonet them."
The junior subaltern was very much occupied with his steak. "Old
Major So-and-So was just senior to you in the regiment?" he asked
at last, and I said that that was so. "Well, he was ripping cool that
day, and he made a joke that the men talked about afterwards. We
had destroyed the mud huts that they called a village, and we were
waiting till the wounded had got well to the rear before retiring. The
Major was in command of our companies that day, for the Colonel
was with the companies in reserve. Well, the Major was sitting on a
great rock, looking at the country——" "What sort of country is it?" I
interposed. "Oh, just mountains and ravines and nullahs, and that
sort of thing—a beastly sort of a place," the subaltern said, believing
that he was conveying the fullest information, and then went on.
"Well, the Major was sitting on the rock smoking that old
meerschaum of a nigger's head which he'd had for years. A bullet
came and smashed the pipe to atoms. He spat out the pipe-stem
and then shook his fist at the place where the shot had come from.
'You blackguards,' he said, 'you're not fit company for a gentleman
to smoke a meerschaum with; I'll only treat you to clays in future.'
Well, the men were amused by this, and——"
"Young man," I said severely, "I knew that pipe, and it is a good
thing it is gone. That steak you have disposed of was good, and
these herring-roes I have ordered for you while you were blathering
are excellent. Eat them, and then get to business at once."
The junior subaltern ate the roes, which were perfect; and when the
coffee and the brandy were brought, he looked at me to see if I was
really in earnest, and began again, "Do you remember James Pilch,
who was the company's cook?"
"No, my boy," I said, "I do not remember James Pilch, nor do I want
to. Waiter, my bill."
The bill was brought. Oysters, 3s.; lobster, 8s.; soup, 2s.; grill, 3s.;
vegetables, 6d.; wine, 7s.; bread and butter, 4d.; coffee, 1s.;
liqueurs, 5s.; roes, 2s.; total, £1: 11: 10.
This paid I turned to the subaltern. "Young man," I said, "I am now
going to personally conduct you to the club smoking-room, and if I
have to sit up with you all night with a stick I intend to be told how
you came to be recommended for the V.C."
The junior subaltern groaned.
22nd November.
 CHAPTER XXXIII

THE EAST ROOM (CRITERION, PICCADILLY CIRCUS)

"I want father to take me to see 'The Liars,'" said pretty Miss
Carcanet ("Brighteyes" to her friends), "but he says that he sees too
many of them as it is in his club smoking-room, and won't go with
me."
There was naturally only one thing to do, and that was to offer to
take Lady Carcanet and Miss Brighteyes to the play at the Criterion.
Sir George was evidently relieved at not having to go to the theatre,
and thanked me. "It is just the play that ought to suit you," he
added, "for I hear it's all about menus and sauces."
Lady Carcanet, however, could not go to the play. She was retiring to
Brighton to escape the fogs, and did not know when she would
come back. Sir George settled it all, however, over the walnuts and
the port. He had to preside at a political dinner one day in the
coming week, and if I would take Miss Brighteyes out to dinner and
to the play that night it would take a responsibility off his shoulders.
"Let the old woman get away to Brighton, and don't say anything till
she's out of the way. I am all for letting the girl enjoy herself freely;
but Maria thinks that no unmarried girl should stir without two
chaperons and a maid to guard her." I nodded assent to Sir George's
opinions, but I knew that he would never have dared to call Lady
Carcanet "the old woman" to her face.
I bought the tickets for "The Liars," and on the morning of the day I
was to have the responsibility of chaperoning Miss Brighteyes I went
to the Criterion, to the East Room, to order my dinner and choose
my table.
M. Lefèvre, the manager, is an old acquaintance of mine, for once
before the East Room was under his direction, and now, with M.
Node and Alfred as his adjutant and sergeant-major, he still keeps a
watchful eye over all that takes place there. He is an enthusiast on
cookery, and should one day write a book on the introduction of
good foreign cookery into England, for he talks of M. Coste and
Maître Escoffier, and the other great pioneers of culinary progress,
with real enthusiasm.
There are three tables, one of which I always take, if possible, when
I dine in the East Room. One is the little table in the corner by the
entrance from the ante-room, another a table sheltered by a glass
screen, and the third a table in the corner at the far end of the
room. I told Alfred to keep me the table at the far end of the room;
and then M. Lefèvre—tall, with a thin beard, with strong, nervous
hands, that he clasps and unclasps as he talks—arrived, and we
talked over our menu. Caviar I preferred to oysters, for I did not
know whether Miss Brighteyes cared for shellfish, and then we
passed to the consideration of the soup.
I suggested that it should be a consommé, as I did not want a heavy
dinner, and M. Lefèvre hit on exactly the right thing, a consommé de
gibier. Next came the fish, and as the details of the fillet of sole with
soft herring-roe, and the sharp taste of prawn and crayfish to make
the necessary contrast were unfolded, I nodded my head. Cailles à
la Sainte Alliance we settled on at once, and then came the difficulty
of the entrée. I wanted a perfectly plain dish, and in a grilled chicken
wing and breast we found our way out of our difficulty. There was a
novelty, a method of cooking bananas that M. Lefèvre, who believes
that bananas are not sufficiently appreciated, wanted us to try.
The menu completed read thus:—

Caviar.
Potage consommé à la Diane.
Filets de sole aux délices.
Suprêmes de volaille grillés.
Carottes nouvelles à la crème.
Laitues braisées en cocotte.
Cailles à la Sainte Alliance.
Salade de chicorée frisée.
 Croûtes à la Caume.
Soufflé glacé à la mandarine.

Then, having nothing in particular to do for a quarter of an hour, I

walked round the building with M. Lefèvre, looked in at the Great
Hall where the statue of Shakespeare gazes contemplatively down
upon the chairman's head at big public dinners; the hall next to it,
which is only one degree smaller in size; the Masonic temple and the
Chapter-room; and the prettiest room of all, the room in which the
French dinner is served, on the walls of which is an Oriental design
of roses which would not have been out of place in one of the
pleasure chambers of Akbar at Agra.
In the evening, before Miss Brighteyes, who was to be escorted as
far as the ante-room to the East Room by Sir George, arrived, I had
a few minutes in which to go and see that all was ready at my table,
and to look round to see whether there was anybody whom I knew
dining. It was, I should think, the first occasion on which I have
dined in the East Room and have not recognised a single face; but
all the ladies appeared very smart, all the men were well groomed,
the usual type of diners at a good restaurant. If I had looked at the
book in which the names of people ordering dinners are noted, I
should no doubt have found that there were a dozen people among
the well-dressed diners whose names are familiar in our mouths as
household words.
The little ante-room, with its green and cream walls, its mirrors, its
big fireplace, and its comfortable chairs, is cosy enough to have a
soothing effect on a worse-tempered man than myself; and my
patience was not much tried, for Sir George formally handed over
Miss Brighteyes to me not five minutes after the time at which I had
ordered dinner.
Miss Brighteyes looked very delightful in a dress of some white
gossamer material with spangly adornments, which resembled
diamonds, scattered over it. She wore a diamond brooch and a
necklet of pearls with a diamond clasp, which had been her birthday
presents from her father on her seventeenth and eighteenth
birthdays.
When Miss Brighteyes gets up on her society high horse she reduces
me to comparative silence. While I was being given some details as
to beautiful decorations at St. George's on the occasion of her
cousin's wedding, I tried in vain to make Miss Brighteyes understand
that the caviar she was eating deserved some attention, but she was
not to be turned from her account of an aisle decorated with
chrysanthemums and palms.
Had a man dared to talk to me about the Grafton Supper Club while
he was drinking the delicious consommé I should have reproved
him, and asked him to reserve conversation for the interludes of the
repast; but Miss Brighteyes, not thinking in the least of the serious
responsibility of eating a good dinner, chattered gaily of Miss Mary
Moore's black and white dress at the supper a week gone by, and
reeled off a catalogue of names from the Peerage of the men who
had been her partners at the little informal dance that followed the
supper.
While I ate with appreciation the délices de sole, I was told why Miss
Brighteyes preferred Princes' to Niagara as a skating-rink, or vice
versa, I forget which.
With the suprême de volaille I was given a short account of a party
at the Bachelors' Club to see a magic-lantern entertainment, and
when the cailles à la Sainte Alliance were brought up Miss Brighteyes
was beginning to tell me of some charades, at her aunt's house,
acted by children. But the quails were a dish in the presence of
which I felt that small talk must cease. "Miss Brighteyes," I said
gravely, "cast your eyes around this room. You see dainty panels of
dark green traced over with gold, you see red and gold cornices, a
ceiling of cream and gold studded with lights innumerable, bronze
velvet curtains, yellow-shaded lamps, fine napery, glass, and silver.
All this is but the framing to what is contained in this little earthen
terrine. Into the interior of a little ortolan M. Gastaud himself, the
chef cuisinier, has introduced a little block of truffle and other
delicacies. That little ortolan has been imbedded in a quail, and this
sacred alliance, over which M. Jeannin, chef des cuisiniers, has
smiled, has been served up cooked to the instant for your
delectation. Is this a moment, then, young lady, to talk of children's
charades? Is not thankful silence better?"
Miss Brighteyes appreciated the solemnity of the moment, and also
ate the bananas—which she said were very good—in silence. It was
not until she had begun her soufflé that she found voice to tell me
about a new and very smart cycling club of which she had been
asked to be an original member.
I paid the bill: couverts, 2s.; caviar, 4s.; potage, 2s.; filets de sole,
3s.; suprêmes de volaille et légumes, 8s.; cailles, 10s.; salade, 1s.;
croûtes à la Caume, 2s.; soufflé glacé, 2s.; vin, "'62" (a capital bottle
of claret), 5s.; eau minérale, 6d.; liqueurs, 3s.; café, 6d.; total, £2:
3s.
"Now," I said to Miss Brighteyes, "we will go down to the theatre
and listen in comfort to a discussion as to sauce Arcadienne and
sauce Marguérite."
29th November.

Since I wrote the above Mons. Lefèvre has had, through temporary
ill-health and overwork, to resign his position as manager at the
Criterion, being succeeded by Mons. Gerard. Mons. Cassignol has
succeeded Mons. Jeannin as the king of the kitchen.
The decorations of the East Room have been altered, and it is now
resplendent in white, gold, and moss-green. The West Room is now
all pink, and a gilt musicians' gallery has been put up in the
redecorated entrance-hall.
Mons. Lefèvre being an enthusiast on the subject of bananas in
cookery, I asked him if he would give the recette of the croûtes à la
Caume, and as he said "certainly," and seemed pleased to do it, I
put in a request for the recette of the filets de sole aux délices, and
that was given me as well.
I also asked Mons. Lefèvre to draw out for me two menus of what
he would consider distinctive east-room dinners for four people and
for ten. They were sent to me and admirably thought out dinners
they are. This is the feast for four—

Caviar.
Consommé Prince de Galles. Crème de santé.
Truites de rivière à la Cléopâtre.
Epaule d'agneau de lait à la Boulangère.
Petits pois nouveaux à la crème.
Caneton Nantais farci à la Rouennaise.
Salade Victoria.
Soufflé glacé à l'orange.
Friandises.

And this for ten—

Huîtres natives.
Potage clair à la tortue. Crème Raphaël.
Darne de saumon au court-bouillon.
Cassolettes de laitances à l'Américaine.
Cailles à la Mascotte.
Noisettes de chevreuil à la Cumberland.
Haricots verts nouveaux.
Purée de champignons.
Chapons du Mans à la truffe.
Salade à la crème.
Asperges d'Argenteuil. Sauce mousseline.
Glacé Alaska.
Diablotins à la Joinville.
 Dessert.

Suprêmes de soles aux délices

Rangez vos filets de soles dans un plat beurré; arrosez-les de vin

blanc et faites-les pocher pendant dix minutes. Egoutez ensuite vos
filets et dressez-les sur un plat oval. Faites réduire rapidement la
cuisson avec un peu de bon velouté et un morceau de beurre
d'écrevisses. Quand votre sauce est prête, jetez-y des queues
d'écrevisses et recouvrez en vos filets de soles. Dressez aux
extrémités du plat des quenelles d'écrevisses décorées à la truffe, et
servez.
Arrange your filleted soles on a buttered dish, sprinkle them with
white wine, and cook them for ten minutes. Then drain the fillets,
and arrange them on an oval dish. Boil down the liquor rapidly, with
a little good velouté sauce and a piece of crayfish butter. When your
sauce is ready, throw into it the tails of the crayfish, and cover the
fillets of sole with it. Round the edge of the dish place quenelles of
crayfish decorated with truffles, and serve.

Croûtes à la Caume

Vous préparez vos croûtes avec de la brioche en tranches d'un

centimètre d'épaisseur, que vous faites rôtir légèrement au four
après les avoir saupoudrées au sucre. Vous les dressez en couronne
sur un plat rond, au milieu, mais avec quelques losanges d'ananas
au centre. Vous prenez des bananas pas trop mûres, mais surtout
bien saines. Vous les jetez avec leur peau dans de l'eau froide que
vous mettez a bouillir. Après deux minutes d'ébullition, les bananes
sont cuites. Vous les retirez, vous les épluchez, et les rangez sur
votre plat autour des croûtons. Vous arrosez l'ananas et les bananes
d'une sauce abricot parfumée au Kirsch, et vous servez bien chaud,
après avoir décoré de quelques fruits confits. C'est très simple.