Glad to be clear of the ship, we headed up Nuuanu Street to King, put our helms hard to port and ran east under the shadow of the substantial concrete stores and offices, with their heavy iron shutters closed for the Sabbath day. From King Street we turned northerly into Fort Street and, with yards squared, and three abreast, we bore up to the haven in which we were to dine, as well pleased a trio of low degree mariners as ever sailed.
The proprietor, swarthy, stout, and smiling, and wearing a white apron, greeted us at the door; while his wife peeked from behind a curtain in the rear, as he ushered us to a nice round table next to a window overlooking a cool shady garden. We were the only diners in this cozy room, the private parlor of mine host. The trades were blowing rather strong that day and a pleasant breeze came in through the open window. The lace curtains still linger in my memory, with other details of the feast, and I had to tuck them back, for they threatened the soup.
When I say that a small vase of flowers decorated the white linen, or perhaps it was only cotton, but at any rate fresh and clean, the fine hand of Frenchy will be recognized, for, let us say so again, and if necessary, again and again, he had planned the dinner from first to last in every detail.
The soup, for of course we started with soup and not with any of the exotic indigestible frippery often attempted by ambitious but ill-informed caterers, was cold consommé! "Hey, wot's this?" demanded Tommy, "are we late?" "No, Tommy, you eat this cold. Try it." "Say, that's all to the all right!"
Well, it certainly was "all to the all right," and real cold, in fact chilly would be the proper word. The host fluttered about; he was doing things right, and to entertain guests such as we, who knew and demanded that every detail be carried out; for such appreciative guests were rare indeed in the vicinity of Fort Street, not far from Hotel.
The fish course was a dainty morsel of some native species, flaky and white. It would take a connoisseur, and few of them shipped at sea in those days, to describe that meal.
The roast was a fat fowl, but not too fat, a plump bird of the genus chicken.
When this rare bird appeared on the table Frenchy insisted upon congratulating the cook, the proprietor's wife, who blushed with pleasure at the gracious compliments showered upon her, and the bird, with equal facility. Of course Frenchy carved. He carved exactly as he had often carved before in the long hungry night watches off the coast of North America when we first chummed together. Only now he was dismembering a real plump drumstick done to a golden brown, and not one of the imaginary mouth-watering tantalizers of the cold high seas. Dressing was there too, and mighty good, and a big dish of mealy mashed potatoes, white and satisfying.
"Have some gravy," said Tommy, passing around the gravy boat, a vessel he was well able to command.
We wound up with a salad of lettuce, and Frenchy mixed the dressing at the table. It will not stretch the imagination of the reader to believe that by this time our shipmate was in a highly satisfactory mood. Tommy and I were having the time of our lives, and as far as dinners go I have never enjoyed a better. Since then it has been my fortune to kick heels beneath the same table with a prince of the royal blood, to have broken bread with school-men and with men of the old world who feel themselves of noble strain; I have speared spuds with the fishermen of the north and have shared my bacon and corn pone with the niggers in the swamps of Florida; I have dined in state and have taken my chances in a college commons, but never can I remember a better or a merrier meal.