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Page 11
But the brisk air and tempting serenity of the day made it seem
emphatically an occasion for two lunches, and we passed on, along
Pearl Street, in the bright checkerboard of sunbeams that slip
through the trestles of the "L." It was cheerful to see that the
same old Spanish caf�s are still there, though we were a little
disappointed to see that one of them has moved from its old-time
quarters, where that fine brass-bound stairway led up from the
street, to a new and gaudy palace on the other side. We also admired
the famous and fascinating camp outfitting shop at 208 Pearl Street,
which apparently calls itself WESTMINSTER ABBEY: but that
is not the name of the shop but of the proprietor. We have been told
that Mr. Abbey's father christened him so, intending him to enter
the church. In the neighbourhood of Cliff and Pearl streets we
browsed about enjoying the odd and savoury smells. There are all
sorts of aromas in that part of the city, coffee and spices, drugs,
leather, soap, and cigars. There was one very sweet, pervasive, and
subtle smell, a caressing harmony for the nostril, which we pursued
up and down various byways. Here it would quicken and grow almost
strong enough for identification; then again it would become faint
and hardly discernible. It had a rich, sweet oily tang, but we were
at a loss to name it. We finally concluded that it was the bouquet
of an "odourless disinfectant" that seemed to have its headquarters
near by. In one place some bales of dried and withered roots were
being loaded on a truck: they gave off a faint savour, which was
familiar but baffling. On inquiry, these were sarsaparilla. Endymion
was pleased with a sign on a doorway: "_Crude drugs and spices and
essential oils._" This, he said, was a perfect Miltonic line.
Hanover Square, however, was the apex of our pilgrimage. To come
upon India House is like stepping back into the world of Charles
Lamb. We had once lunched in the clubrooms upstairs with a charming
member and we had never forgotten the old seafaring prints, the
mustard pots of dark blue glass, the five-inch mutton chops, the
Victorian contour of the waiter's waistcoat of green and yellow
stripe. This time we fared toward the tavern in the basement, where
even the outsider may penetrate, and were rejoiced by a snug table
in the corner. Here we felt at once the true atmosphere of lunching,
which is at its best when one can get in a corner, next to some old
woodwork rubbed and shiny with age. Shandygaff, we found, was not
unknown to the servitor; and the cider that we saw Endymion beaming
upon was a blithe, clear yellow, as merry to look at as a fine white
wine. Very well, very well indeed, we said to ourselves; let the
world revolve; in the meantime, what is that printed in blackface
type upon the menu? We have looked upon the faces of many men, we
have endured travail and toil and perplexity, we have written much
rot and suffered much inward shame to contemplate it; but in the
meantime (we said, gazing earnestly upon the face of Endymion), in
the meantime, we repeated, and before destiny administers that final
and condign chastisement that we ripely merit, let us sit here in
the corner of the India House and be of good cheer. And at this
point, matters being so, and a second order of butter being already
necessary, the waiter arrived with the Spanish omelet.
Homeward by the way of South Street, admiring the slender concave
bows of fine ships--the _Mexico_ and the _Santa Marta_, for
instance--and privily wondering what were our chances of smelling
blue water within the next quinquennium, we passed in mild and
placid abandonment. On Burling Slip, just where in former times
there used to hang a sign KIPLING BREW (which always interested us),
we saw a great, ragged, burly rogue sitting on a doorstep. He had
the beard of a buccaneer, the placid face of one at ease with
fortune. He hitched up his shirt and shifted from one ham to another
with supreme and sunkissed contentment. And Endymion, who sees all
things as the beginnings of heavenly poems, said merrily: "As I was
walking on Burling Slip, I saw a seaman without a ship."
[Illustration]
SECRET TRANSACTIONS OF THE THREE HOURS FOR LUNCH CLUB
The doctor having been elected a member of the club, a meeting was
held to celebrate the event. Bowling Green, Esq., secretary, was
instructed to prepare carefully confidential minutes. Weather: fair
and tepid. Wind: N.N.E. Course laid: From starting line at a Church
Street bookshop, where the doctor bought a copy of "Limbo," by
Aldous Huxley, to Pier 56, N.R. Course made good: the same.
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