“Tennyson.”
On the site of the old Tavern, where was the fish shop, etc., the Bank of England has just reared a splendid and imposing Italian edifice, which harmonizes well with the Law Courts. The proprietor has moved to the other side of the street, taking with him all his properties—the old mahogany boxes, fireplace, tankards, etc.—reconstructing a sort of ghostly “Cock.” Even the gilt bird, a very spirited piece of work, even if not Grinling’s, flourishes away over the door. But it is not the same thing—can never be.[18]
There were two other taverns almost vis-à-vis, and each with antique claims. One, “The Rainbow,” which boasts a remote pedigree. But though you enter in the favourite Fleet Street style, through a narrow passage, the place itself has undergone much restoration. “Dicks’” the other, was down one of the Temple lanes, dark and grimed, and somewhat rudely appointed, as though it wished to rest its claims entirely upon its “chops and steaks,” and upon nothing else. “Dicks’” used to be labelled outside “Ben Jonson’s Noted House,” and boasted of having enjoyed the custom of that eminent man. “Dicks’” however, has gone. It has fallen into the hands of Germans, who hold a table d’hôte.
The art and science of cooking chops is not nearly so highly esteemed as it used to be in the last century, when noblemen and gentlemen frequented taverns, and clubs did not exist, save at taverns. The history of the lately revived Beefsteak Club is familiar; its huge gridiron is still to be seen in its old feasting room at the Lyceum Theatre, with its admirable motto, “If it were done when ’tis done,” etc. The greatest chop and steak eater of his day, and patron of this club, was the Duke of Norfolk, a gross and coarse feeder, who often astounded visitors by his consumption of successive steaks brought in “hot and hot,” and consumed voraciously.
Fleet Street, interesting in so many ways, is remarkable for the curious little courts and passages into which you make entry, under small archways. These are “Johnson’s Court,” “Bolt Court,” “Racquet Court,” and the like. Indeed, it is evident that the strange little passage which led to the “Cock” must have been originally an entrance to one of these courts on which the tavern gradually encroached. Much the same are found in the Borough, only these lead into greater courts and inn yards. But in Fleet Street there is one that is specially interesting. We can fancy the Doctor tramping up to his favourite tavern, the “Cheshire Cheese.”
Passing into the dark alley known as “Wine Office Court,” we come to a narrow flagged passage, the house or wall on the other side quite close, and excluding the light. The “Cheese” looks, indeed, a sort of dark den, an inferior public-house, its grimed windows like those of a shop, which we can look in at from the passage. On entering, there is the little bar facing us, and always the essence of snugness and cosiness; to the right a small room, to the left a bigger one. This is the favourite tavern, with its dirty walls and sawdusted floor, a few benches put against the wall, and two or three plain tables of the rudest kind. The grill is heard hissing in some back region, where the chop or small steak is being prepared; and it may be said en passant, that the flavour and treatment of the chop and “small dinner steak”—are there breakfast and luncheon steaks also?—are quite different from those “done” on the more pretentious grills which have lately sprung up. On the wall is a testimonial portrait of a rather bloated waiter—Todd, I think, by name—quite suggestive of the late Mr. Liston. He is holding up his corkscrew of office to an expectant guest, either in a warning or exultant way, as if he had extracted the cork in a masterly style. Underneath is a boastful inscription that it was painted in 1812, to be hung up as an heirloom and handed down, having been executed under the reign of Dolamore, who then owned the place. Strange to say, the waiter of the “Cheshire Cheese” has been sung, like his brother at the “Cock,” but not by such a bard. There is a certain irreverence; but the parody is a good one:—
Waiter at the “Cheshire Cheese,”
Uncertain, gruff, and hard to please,
When “tuppence” smooths thy angry brow,
A ministering angel thou!
It has its regular habitués; and on Saturday or Friday there is a “famous rump-steak pie,” which draws a larger attendance; for it is considered that you may search the wide world round without matching that succulent delicacy. These great savoury meat pies do not kindle the ardour of many persons, being rather strong for the stomachs of babes.
Well, then, hither it was that Dr. Johnson used to repair. True, neither Boswell, nor Hawkins, nor after them Mr. Croker, take note of the circumstance; but there were many things that escaped Mr. Croker, diligent as he was. There is, however, excellent evidence of the fact. A worthy solicitor named Jay—who is garrulous but not unentertaining in a book of anecdotes which he has written—frequented the “Cheshire Cheese” for fifty years, during which long tavern life, he says, “I have been interested in seeing young men when I first went there, who afterwards married; then in seeing their sons dining there, and often their grandsons, and much gratified by observing that most of them succeeded well in life. This applies particularly to the lawyers, with whom I have so often dined when students, when barristers, and some who were afterwards judges.
“During the time I have frequented this house there have been only three landlords—Mr. Carlton, Mr. Dolamore, and Mr. Beaufoy Moore, the present one; and during each successive occupation the business has increased. I may here mention that when I first visited the house, I used to meet several very old gentlemen who remembered Dr. Johnson nightly at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’; and they have told me, what is not generally known, that the Doctor, whilst living in the Temple, always went to the ‘Mitre’ or the ‘Essex Head’; but when he removed to Gough Square and Bolt Court he was a constant visitor at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’, because nothing but a hurricane would have induced him to cross Fleet Street. All round this neighbourhood, if you want to rent a room or an office, you are sure to be told that it was once the residence of either Dr. Johnson or Oliver Goldsmith! Be that as it may, it is an interesting locality, and a pleasing sign—the ‘Old Cheshire Cheese Tavern,’ Wine Office Court, Fleet Street—which will afford the present generation, it is hoped, for some time to come, an opportunity of witnessing the kind of tavern in which our forefathers delighted to assemble for refreshment.”[19]