d
confide to you in a whisper that Andre's was the only truly Bohemian
restaurant in town, it may be well to follow them.

Andre began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery ten-cent
eating-house. Had you seen him there you would have called him
tough--to yourself. Not aloud, for he would have "soaked" you as
quickly as he would have soaked his thumb in your coffee. He saved
money and started a basement _table d'hote_ in Eighth (or Ninth)
Street. One afternoon Andre drank too much absinthe. He announced to
his startled family that he was the Grand Llama of Thibet, therefore
requiring an empty audience hall in which to be worshiped. He moved
all the tables and chairs from the restaurant into the back yard,
wrapped a red table-cloth around himself, and sat on a step-ladder
for a throne. When the diners began to arrive, madame, in a flurry of
despair, laid cloths and ushered them, trembling, outside. Between
the tables clothes-lines were stretched, bearing the family wash. A
party of Bohemia hunters greeted the artistic innovation with shrieks
and acclamations of delight. That week's washing was not taken in for
two years. When Andre came to his senses he had the menu printed on
stiffly starched cuffs, and served the ices in little wooden tubs.
Next he took down his sign and darkened the front of the house.
When you went there to dine you fumbled for an electric button and
pressed it. A lookout slid open a panel in the door, looked at you
suspiciously, and asked if you were acquainted with Senator Herodotus
Q. McMilligan, of the Chickasaw Nation. If you were, you were
admitted and allowed to dine. If you were not, you were admitted and
allowed to dine. There you have one of the abiding principles of
Bohemia. When Andre had accumulated $20,000 he moved up-town, near
Broadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the thrown-down.
There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls and
automobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nod
of recognition.

There is a large round table in the northeast corner of Andre's at
which six can sit. To this table Grainger and Mary Adrian made their
way. Kappelman and Reeves were already there. And Miss Tooker, who
designed the May cover for the _Ladies' Notathome Magazine_. And Mrs.
Pothunter, who never drank anything but black and white highballs,
being in mourning for her husband, who--oh, I've forgotten what he
did--died, like as not.

Spaghetti-weary