“Oh, you recommend that, do you? Let me see....” The waiter began to translate rapidly the meaning of the various items, so rapidly that Mr. Plimmer did not even have time to say “cheese” instead of “fromage.”
“Gaston always makes himself responsible for my lunch here,” he explained to his guest. “He knows my tastes, and you can be sure he’s going to give us something special.”
The waiter, having taken the order for the table-d’hôte, returned with the wine list.
“Ah-ha, now this will take a bit of thought,” said Mr. Plimmer. “Let me see now. Let—me—see. White or red wine, Miss O’Finn?”
Nancy chose white.
“What woman ever chose red?” he laughed romantically. “Now let—me—see. What’s the number of that Chambertin I usually drink here, Gaston?”
“Number 34 is a very nice wine, sare.”
“That’s it! That’s it! A bottle of 34. Extraordinary, isn’t it, the way these fellows remember every customer’s likes and dislikes?” he observed to Nancy when the waiter had retired to fetch the wine. “It must be quite a year since I was in Kettner’s, and yet he remembered which was my particular tipple. But of course I always tip him well. Oh, yes, old Gaston has good reason to remember my tipple.”
Mr. Plimmer winked solemnly to indicate that the pun was intentional.
After a little more talk about the advantages of establishing a personal relationship with waiters if you wished to fare well at restaurants, Mr. Plimmer came to business.