The Early Closing Act of 1872 had a disastrous effect upon the old London supper-houses. What Mr. John Hollingshead never tired of calling the “slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed law” rang the knell of many a licensed tavern, well-conducted, where plain, well-cooked food and sound liquor were to be obtained by men who would have astonished their respective couches had they sought them before the small hours.
Evans’s.
The “Cave of Harmony” of Thackeray was a different place to the “Evans’s” of my youthful days. Like the younger Newcome, I was taken there in the first instance, by the author of my being. But Captain Costigan was conspicuous by his absence; and “Sam Hall” was non est. I noted well the abnormal size of the broiled kidneys, and in my ignorance of anatomy, imagined that Evans’s sheep must be subjected to somewhat the same process—the “ordeal by fire”—as the Strasbourg geese. And the potatoes—zounds, sirs! What potatoes! “Shall I turn it out, sir?” inquired the attentive waiter; and, as he seized the tuber, enveloped in the snow-white napkin, broke it in two, and ejected a floury pyramid upon my plate, I would, had I known of such a decoration in those days, have gladly recommended that attendant for the Distinguished Service order. In the course of many visits I never saw any supper commodity served here besides chops, steaks, kidneys, welsh-rarebits, poached eggs, and (I think) sausages; and the earliest impression made upon a youthful memory was the air of extreme confidence which pervaded the place. We certainly “remembered” the waiter; but not even a potato was paid for until we encountered the head functionary at the exit door; and his peculiar ideas of arithmetic would have given Bishop Colenso a succession of fits.
Who “Evans” was, we neither knew nor cared. “Paddy” Green, with his chronic smile, was enough for us; as he proffered his ever-ready snuff-box, inquired after our relatives—“Paddy,” like “Spanky” at Eton, knew everybody—and implored silence whilst the quintette Integer Vitæ was being sung by the choir. We used to venerate that quintette far more than any music we ever heard in church, and I am certain “Paddy” Green would have backed his little pack of choristers—who, according to the general belief, passed the hours of daylight in waking the echoes of St. Paul’s Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, and therefore, at Evans’s, always looked a bit stale and sleepy—against any choir in the world. As for Harry Sidney, the fat, jolly-looking gentleman who was wont to string together the topics of the day and reproduce them, fresh as rolls, set to music, we could never hear enough of him; and I wish I had now some of the half-crowns which in the past were bestowed upon Herr Von Joel, the indifferent siffleur, who was “permanently retained upon the premises,” and who was always going to take a benefit the following week.
“Kidneys and ’armony”—that was the old programme in the “Cave.” And then the march of time killed poor old Paddy, and another management reigned. Gradually the “lady element” was introduced, and a portion of the hall was set apart for the mixed assembly. And then came trouble, and, finally, disestablishment. And for some time before the closing of the Cave as a place of entertainment, it was customary to remove the fine old pictures (what became of them, I wonder), from the walls, at “Varsity Boat Race” time. For the undergraduate of those days was nothing if not rowdy. Youth will have its fling; and at Evans’s the fling took the form of tumblers. Well do I recollect a fight in “the old style” in the very part of the “Cave” where eminent barristers, actors, and other wits of a past age, used to congregate. The premier boxer of Cambridge University had been exercising his undoubted talents as a breaker of glass, during the evening, and at length the overwrought manager obliged him with an opponent worthy of his fists in the person of a waiter who could also put up his fists. Several rounds were fought, strictly according to the rules of the Prize Ring, and in the result, whilst the waiter had sustained considerable damage to his ribs, the “Cambridge gent” had two very fine black eyes. Well do I remember that “mill,” also the waiter, who afterwards became an habitual follower of the turf.
If Cremorne introduced the fashion of “long drinks,” sodas, and et ceteras, the suppers served in the old gardens had not much to recommend them. A slice or two of cold beef, or a leg of a chicken, with some particularly salt ham, formed the average fare; but those who possessed their souls with patience occasionally saw something hot, in the way of food—chiefly cutlets. The great virtue of the cutlet is that it can be reheated; and one dish not infrequently did duty for more than one party. The rejected portion, in fact, would “reappear” as often as a retiring actor. “I know them salmon cutlets,” the waiter in Pink Dominoes used to observe, “as well as I know my own mother!” In fact, Cremorne, like the “night houses” of old, was not an ideal place to sup at.
But, per contra, the “Albion” was. Until the enforcement of the “slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed” policy there was no more justly celebrated house of entertainment than the one which almost faced the stage door of Drury Lane theatre, in Great Russell Street. One of the brothers Cooper—another kept the Rainbow in Fleet Street—retired on a fortune made here, simply by pursuing the policy of giving his customers the best of everything. And a rare, Bohemian stamp of customers he had, too—a nice, large-hearted, open-handed lot of actors, successful and otherwise, dramatic critics ditto, and ditto journalists, also variegated in degree; with the usual, necessary, leavening of the “City” element. The custom of the fair sex was not encouraged at the old tavern; though in a room on the first floor they were permitted to sup, if in “the profession” and accompanied by males, whose manners and customs could be vouched for. In winter time, assorted grills, of fish, flesh, and fowl, were served as supper dishes; whilst tripe was the staple food. Welsh rarebits, too, were in immense demand. And I think it was here that I devoured, with no fear of the future before my plate, a
Buck Rarebit.
During the silent watches of the rest of the morning, bile and dyspepsia fought heroically for my soul; and yet the little animal is easy enough to prepare, being nothing grander than a Welsh rarebit, with a poached egg atop. But the little tins (silver, like the forks and spoons, until the greed and forgetfulness of mankind necessitated the substitution of electro-plate) which the Hebes at the “Old Cheshire Cheese” fill with fragments of the hostelry’s godfather—subsequently to be stewed in good old ale—are less harmful to the interior of the human diaphragm.
A favourite Albion supper-dish during the summer months was