“Alien indeed!” retorted the other. “Anyhow, I have never been nearly turned out of a club for indecent exposure, like my traducer!”
“Only my boots!” roared out his opponent.
But all was in vain, and the electors, fully convinced that their old member had appeared naked in his club, declined to re-elect him.
About two years ago West End clubs were, it is said, at their worst as regards membership; but since then the tide seems to have turned, and a few then in a parlous state have once more found the path of prosperity.
As a matter of fact, the competition of restaurants has improved the cooking in clubs, and many committees have sensibly come to recognize that an attitude of indifference to modern improvements and the changed needs of members does not conduce to the well-being of the institutions over which they preside.
Then, too, a number of clubs which had been tottering for years have disappeared, with the result that a number of others have gained members. Of late years also, the craze for founding new clubs seems rather to have died away, whilst the fashionable “restaurant clubs,” which for a short time seemed likely to become popular features of West End life, have entirely ceased to exist.
The chief of these was the Amphitryon, established some twenty years ago at 41 Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, and presided over by M. Émile Aoust, once maître d’hôtel at Bignon’s in Paris. The object of the club was to provide the attractions of a first-rate French restaurant, which at the same time should be absolutely exclusive. The subscription was three guineas, and no entrance fee was paid by the first 200 members who joined the club, amongst whom were the then Prince of Wales and the Duke of Connaught.
The small club-house was comfortable enough, and the cuisine left little to grumble at. About 700 members were enrolled, and candidates kept flocking in. Members were only allowed to introduce three guests at a time, for the accommodation in the dining-room was very limited.
An inaugural dinner was given to the Prince of Wales, and a highly successful evening was enjoyed by fourteen selected guests at the cost of £120. “Kirsch glacé,” one of the plats which figured in the menu, is said to have caused some amusement, the k being called a misprint for h, the first letter of the name of a prominent foreign financier then in great favour with smart society.
The chief faults of this club were its expense and its limited accommodation. A first-class dinner was absurdly expensive, costing close upon £10 a head. In addition to this, the little tables were, on account of the smallness of the premises, so closely packed that intimate conversation was next to impossible. It must be observed, however, that there were private rooms upstairs which could be reserved for dinner-parties, and many were given.