Many visitors to Paris will remember dining at Bignon's, and doubtless will equally recall the figures of the addition. Of this restaurant, whose carte was devoid of prices, it was said that a man who dined at the corner table for a period of years became a cosmopolite—in every capital of Europe he would be recognised and fêted; for that matter, he did not need to rise from his chair, as all Europe would pass in review before him.
A provincial dining there in April, on perceiving melons on the card, ordered one. "What!" he exclaimed, after examining his bill, "thirty francs for a melon! You are joking!"
"Monsieur," replied Bignon, "if you can find me three or four at the same price, I will buy them immediately."
"Fifteen francs for a peach?" inquired Prince Narischkin; "they must be very scarce."
"It isn't the peaches that are scarce, mon prince; it is the Narischkins."
"Monsieur Bignon, a red herring at two and a half francs! It seems to me that is excessive."
"But these prices are marked in your interest," rejoined the restaurateur. "It is the barrier I have established between my clients and the vulgar. Why do you come here? To be among yourselves, to avoid embarrassing or compromising surroundings. If I changed my prices, the house would be invaded, and you would all leave."
Another patron who complained of a sauce was asked, "Did you dine here last evening?"
"No," he replied.
"That is the trouble, then; you spoiled your taste in the other restaurant."