Crevettes.
Tortue clair.
Filets de sole Meunière.
Vol-au-vent aux huîtres natives.
Faisan Souvaroff.
Selle de mouton.
Céleri braisé Bordelaise.
Laver. Pommes Parisienne.
Poularde rôtie.
Lard grillé. Salade.
Bombe glacée Duchesse.
Os à la moëlle.
Dessert. Café.
I have eaten some good dinners at the Freemasons' Tavern, and others not so good. To-night the cook is not up to his best form, and has not responded to the inspiration of the menu. The turtle soup is not like that of the excellent Messrs. Ring and Brymer, or that of Mr. Painter; the faisan Souvaroff is dry, and the cook's nerve has failed him when the truffles had to be added; but, on the other hand, the sole Meunière and the vol-au-vent are admirable, and the marrow-bones are large and scalding-hot.
The genial old custom of taking wine is part of all Masonic dinners, and after the "Most Wise" has drunk to the other guests, much friendly challenging takes place. The marrow-bones having been disposed of, the ex-Lord Mayor, the Chaplain of the Chapter, says a grace as short as that before meat, and then follow the loyal toasts. It is the custom of the Chapter that speeches should be short, and the toasts of Her Majesty and the Prince of Wales, and the few Masonic toasts that follow, occupy very little time. Then the cigars are lit, and the formal order at table is broken up and little knots are formed.
One by one the guests who have an appointment elsewhere, or who are going to the theatre, say good-night and go off; but a remnant still remain, and these make an adjournment to a cosy little clubroom on the top story of Freemasons' Hall, where good stories are told, and soda-water-bottle corks pop until long after midnight.
15th November.
There is a small Masonic dining-club, called the Sphinx Club, which dines at the Freemasons' Tavern, and which I mention because the dinner I last ate in company with my brother Sphinxes was one of the best efforts of the chef and of the manager Mons. Blanchette—which means that it was very good indeed. The club was founded as an antidote to the large amount of soft soap that Freemasons habitually plaster each other with in after-dinner speeches. No Sphinx is allowed to say anything good of any brother Sphinx, and when a candidate is put up for the club his proposer says all the ill he knows or can invent about his past life. A candidate can only become a member of the club by being unanimously blackballed. It is needless to say that the best of temper and good fellowship is the rule amongst the Sphinxes, and the Freemasons' Tavern seems to always have a very good dinner for them. This was the menu of their last banquet—
Huîtres.
Tortue clair.
Rouget à la Grenobloise.
Caille à la Souvaroff.
Agneau rôti. Sauce menthe.
Choux de mer. Pommes noisettes.
Bécasse sur canapé.
Pommes paille. Salade de laitues.
Os à la moëlle.
Petit soufflé glacé rosette.
Fondu au fromage.
Dessert.
Café.