"What's Kettner's, anyway?" queried Mrs. Tota; and I told her of the snug little restaurant buried away in Church Street, which was first discovered by two well-known journalists, a restaurant of comfortable nooks and corners, a restaurant of such individuality that when it was necessary to rebuild it a few years ago it was rebuilt as nearly as possible on the old lines, with its three or four public dining-rooms below, and its network of passages and warren of little rooms above. I told her of Louis, now in supreme charge, who has been part of Kettner's since Kettner's first became known to London; and of Henri, who has charge of the upstairs dining-rooms, and who, with his peaked beard and clean-shaven upper lip, is the type of maître d'hôtel that all the French artists who record the life of the boulevards love to draw.
Mrs. Tota said that it sounded nice. She liked the name; Kettner's sounded a little unusual, and she liked the description of the old-fashioned place.
Then I summed up: "You will very kindly pick me up at the club; we will dine at Kettner's, then go across the way to the Palace Theatre, where I will have a box; after that back to Kettner's to put on your domino, which we will leave there; and then on to the Covent Garden ball, where we will sup in our box and stay until after the procession."
Mrs. Tota declared that I was a dear, and George grunted a few words of genuine thankfulness.
I went down to Kettner's and interviewed Henri. The nicest possible little dining-room and a very simple little dinner were what I wanted.
Henri put his head on one side, like a wise magpie, and suggested oysters as hors-d'œuvre. I said that the idea was novel, but that I preferred caviar. Then Henri relapsed into deep thought. Petite marmite was his next suggestion, and on this I turned on him and rent him, figuratively, for every maître d'hôtel in the world seems to think that petite marmite or croûte au pot is the only possible beginning to a small plain dinner. Friendly relations were re-established, and this was our final effort so far as the menu was concerned—
Caviar.
Consommé à la Colbert.
Filets de sole à la Joinville.
Langue de bœuf aux champignons.
Epinards. Pommes Anna.
Poulet à la Parmentier.
Salade.
Asperges. Sauce mousseline.
Biscuits glacées.
Dessert.
and a bottle of Moët '89, just chilled, to drink with it.
Room A was the dining-room that Henri thought would suit us. So A was the room selected.
Mrs. Tota, in a very charming black dress with a pattern of tiny steel sequins on it, with a gorgeous ermine cloak and a mysterious bundle that I knew must contain the domino, picked me up at the club and drove me down to Church Street. She was delighted at the appearance of the cosy little houses and the narrow entrance. Before we went to our dining-room above I asked Louis to take us through the kitchen, which, with its walls of white tiles and perfect cleanliness, is well worth seeing, and we peeped into all the public dining-rooms on the ground-floor.