It is in these cellars that a stranger may become acquainted with “real life in Washington.” In the best part of the season, when speeches are plenty and cash flush, the idlers’ “refectories” keep open the whole night; the regular eating and drinking, and, as I was informed, also the gambling, never commencing until twelve o’clock.
One of these establishments,—the best of the kind I believe in the metropolis,—“the Epicure House,” as it is termed, was recommended to me as doing canvass-back ducks in the neatest style, and being always the resort of the most fashionable company. This recommendation, joined to the fact that nothing can be obtained at an inn after the hour of eleven,—a practice which adds much to the convenience of the innkeepers,—induced me to try the skill of a coloured cook, and to have a peep at the young men that were called “the first” in the law-giving city.
On inquiring the way, I was pointed to a house forming the corner opposite to Gadsby’s hotel, to which was attached a lamp which gave exactly as much light as was necessary in order not to break one’s neck in descending the staircase which led to the entrance, but left the establishment itself in precisely that sort of obscurity which is always desirable for a place serving as a rendezvous for comme-il-faut people. On entering it,—it being only a little after eleven,—I found the room, which was divided into boxes after the manner of a common English eating-house, nearly empty; a few persons only eating scolloped oysters or drinking punch, but a number of black imps slinking about in evident expectation of better business. I hesitated at first whether I should take a seat, the appearance of the table-cloths, cruets, &c. being far from inviting; though the bar was stocked with bottles bearing the inscriptions—“Sillery champaign,” “Klause Johannisberger,” “Marcobrunner,” “Hermitage,” &c.
The bar-keeper, perceiving my want of resolution, came forward, and accosted me in the most polite terms.
“You wish, perhaps, for a private room, sir? If you do not want it longer than after midnight, I can give you the one adjoining. At twelve I expect a party who may want it until three or four in the morning.”
“Thank you; I do not like to take possession of a room which I am obliged to give up in three quarters of an hour. Have you none other?”
“I have yet another room up stairs; but it is occupied by a dinner-party, which is not likely to break up till two or three in the morning.”
“You keep very late hours, then?”
“Why, sir, we commence late. If you stop here till two o’clock, you will see this room crowded. This evening all the gentlemen are at Mrs. ***’s, who gives nothing but tea and cakes; which, as you may imagine, is not precisely the thing for young men that are dancing the whole evening. Many of them are yet growing, and, as is usually the case with such gentlemen, have an excellent appetite.”
“And so they come here to sup?”