CROCKFORD’S IN 1828.
From a drawing by T. H. Shepherd.
The present building is, with some alterations, the same as the one constructed in 1827—on the site of three houses then demolished—for the famous ex-fishmonger by the brothers Wyatt. The decorations alone, it is said, cost £94,000, and consist of two wings and a centre, with four Corinthian pilasters and entablature, and a balustrade throughout; the ground-floor has Venetian windows, and the upper story large French windows. The entrance hall has a screen of Roman-Ionic scagliola columns with gilt capitals, and a cupola of gilding and stained glass. The staircase was panelled with scagliola, and enriched with Corinthian columns. The grand drawing-room was in the style of Louis Quatorze, as it was understood at that day; its ceiling had enrichments of bronze-gilt, with door paintings à la Watteau. Upon the opening of the club-house, it was described as “the New Pandemonium.” The gambling-room (now the dining-room of the Devonshire Club) consisted of four chambers: the first an anteroom, opening to a saloon embellished to a high degree; out of it a small curiously-formed cabinet or boudoir, opening to the supper-room. All these rooms were panelled in the most gorgeous manner, spaces being adorned with mirrors, silk or gold enrichments, and the ceilings as gorgeous as the walls. A billiard-room on the upper floor completed the number of apartments professedly dedicated to the use of the members. Whenever any secret manœuvre was to be carried on, there were smaller and more retired places, whose walls might be relied upon to tell no tales.
Crockford, next to the late M. Blanc, of Monte Carlo fame, was probably the most efficient manager of a gambling establishment who ever existed.
He possessed great tact, and thoroughly understood how to humour his clients, most of whose money eventually drifted into his pockets.
A newly-elected member one night, during a lull in play, jokingly said to Crockford: “I will bet a sovereign against the choice of your pictures, of which there are many hanging round the walls, that I throw in six mains.” To this he consented. The member took the box, and threw in seven times successively, and then walked round the room to make his selection. There was a St. Cecilia, by Westall, which he had before admired, and that he chose, which of course provoked a good deal of laughter. Other members then followed his example; the result being that they won several of the oil-paintings, which they bore triumphantly away.
The cook, Louis Eustache Ude, was celebrated throughout Europe, as was his successor Francatelli. Crockford’s policy was to run his establishment on the most luxurious lines, making no profit except on the gambling; and therefore the dinners, though perfect, were very reasonable in price. In addition, all the dainties of the season, fish, flesh, and fowl, were cooked after the most approved Parisian models, and were tortured into shapes that defied recognition. One of the favourite dishes was Boudin de cerises à la Bentinck—cherry pudding without the stones—which was named after Lord George, a frequent visitor to the club. No one was charged for ale or porter, until one day a hungry member dined off the joint and drank three pints of bottled ale, after which Crockford made a change in the charges, with the remark that “a glass or two was all very well, but three pints were too much of a good thing.”
On one occasion, in the list of game on August 10, appeared some grouse. The Marquis of Queensberry, a great sportsman, summoned Ude to Bow Street, and had him fined for infringing the Game Laws. The following day Lord Queensberry looked at the bill of fare, and no grouse appeared in it. He was about to sit down to dinner, when a friend came in, who proposed joining him. Each selected his own dishes. When they were served, there was a slight hesitation in Ude’s manner, but they attributed it to the fine he had recently paid. An entrée followed some excellent soup and fish, Ude saying, “This is my lord’s,” uncovering a dish containing a mutton cutlet à la soubise, “and this Sir John’s,” placing the latter as far from the noble Marquis as possible. “Have a cutlet,” said Lord Queensberry. The Baronet assented. “And you in return can have some of my entrée.” At last it came to the moment when Sir John’s dish was to be uncovered. “What on earth is this?” asked Ude’s prosecutor, as he took up a leg of the salmis; “it cannot be partridge or pheasant; bring the bill of fare.” The waiter obeyed. “Why, what does this mean? ‘Salmis de fruit défendu!’—grouse, I verily believe.” Ude apologized, declaring that the grouse had been in the house before he was summoned. The Marquis chose to believe his statement, and allowed the matter to drop.
Some members were very particular and trying to the patience of the world-famed French cook. At one period of his presidency, the ground of a complaint formally addressed to the committee was that there was an admixture of onion in the soubise. This chef was sensitive as to complaints. Colonel Darner, happening to enter Crockford’s one evening to dine early, found Ude walking up and down in a towering passion, and naturally inquired what was the matter. “No matter, Monsieur le Colonel! Did you see that gentleman who has just gone out? Well, he ordered a red mullet for his dinner. I made him a delicious little sauce with my own hands. The price of the mullet was marked as two shillings, and I asked sixpence for the sauce; this he refuses to pay. The imbecile must think that the red mullets come out of the sea with my sauce in their pockets.”
The Devonshire Club possesses some relics of Crockford’s in the shape of an etching by R. Seymour, which hangs in the corridor smoking-room, where are also six of the original chairs used in the old gaming-room. The etching of Crockford was presented by Captain Shean; the chairs, in 1902, by another member—Mr. T. J. Barratt.
