ulcet tones, or soft strains from the band. Rather you
seem to dine in a menagerie. It is a bombardment more than a meal. The
air buckles and cracks with noise. The first outbreak of hostilities
comes from the counter at the entry of the first guest. The moment he is
seated the waitress screams, "Un potage--un!" The large Monsieur, the
proprietor, at the counter, bellows down the tube, "Un POTAGE--Un!"
Away in subterranean regions an ear catches it, and a distant voice
chants "_Potage_!" And then from the far reaches of the kitchen you hear
a smothered tenor, as coming from the throat of one drowned in the
soup-kettle, "P o t a g e!" As the customers crowd in the din increases.
Everywhere there is noise; as a result the customers must shout their
conversation. As the volume of conversation increases the counter,
finding itself hard-pressed, brings up its heavy artillery.

"Vol-au-vent!" sings the waitress. "_Vol-au-vent!_" chants the counter
in a bass as heavy and with as wide a range as Chaliapine's.
"VOL-AU-VENT!" roars the kitchen with the despair of tears in the voice;
and "V o l-a u-v e n t!" wails the lost soul beyond the Styx. By half-past
seven it is no longer a restaurant; it is no longer a dinner that is
being served. It is a grand opera that is in progress. The vocalists,
"finding" themselves towards the end of the first act, warm up to the
second, and each develops an individuality. I have often let my Vienna
steak get cold while listening and trying to distinguish between the
kitchen lift-man and the cook. Lift-man is usually a light and agreeable
baritone, while the cook has mostly a falsetto, with a really exciting
register. This grand opera idea affects, in turn, the waitresses. To the
first-comers they are casual and chatty; but towards seven o'clock there
is a subtle change. They become tragic. They are as the children of
destiny. There is that Italianate sob in the voice as they demand
_Poulet roti au salade_! as who should cry, "Ah, fors e lui!" or "In
questa tomba...." They do not serve you. They assault you with soup or
omelette. They make a grand pass above your head, and fling knife and
fork before you. They collide with themselves and each other, and there
are recriminations and reprisals. They quarrel, apparently, to the
death, while M'sieu and Madame look on, passive spectators of the
eternal drama. The air boils. The blood of the diners begins to boil,
too, for they wave napkins and sticks of