One of a half-dozen waiters who had been hurrying about, placed menus, decorated with hungry black cats, in front of them with a flourish and—oh, so humbly!—suggested dishes for the Americans’ consideration.
“Oh, you must try one of their omelettes. They’re famous for them,” said Meadows. “Monsieur Barbiton—that’s that grinning Billiken—can do more things with eggs than any other three chefs in Paris, which means the world.”
While waiting for their omelettes, Hamilton and Meadows looked about the room. It was larger than one would think upon first entering, much larger than one would imagine from the outside—but cozy. There was a comfortable clatter of dishes and a buzz of voices. The diners were mostly Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, shrugging their shoulders and gesticulating over their food. Here and there appeared the sombre uniform of an American or English officer.
“How much warmer every one seems here,” remarked Meadows, groping about in her mind for the right adjective. “Here they come to discuss things—art, poetry, philosophy, politics. In a Broadway restaurant people come to eat and get over the business as quickly as possible.”
Hamilton laughed.
“Oh, I suppose we’re too efficient. Afraid to waste time. In the South, though, we take things a bit easier.”
“But are we Americans really so efficient?” queried Meadows. “We hurry about a great deal, but do we get anywhere?”
“Well, we are tremendously advanced in technical matters—in machine production. We can make things faster and cheaper than any other country in the world. The average American workingman probably produces twice as much as the best workingman in Europe.”
Hamilton paused. The waiter was approaching with a tray of hors d’œuvres—olives, radishes, appetizing little fish that Hamilton failed to recognize. He selected a radish and emphasized points with it between bites. He was entering into the atmosphere of the place.
“But in order to get this production, the business man has to work like the deuce. He’s at his desk early in the morning and late at night. He runs into a restaurant at noon, grabs a ham sandwich, a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, eats it in a cramped position from the arm of a chair, and rushes back again. He’s not a captain, but a slave of industry.”