Punch (35.1858)

December IS, 1S5S.J PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 243

"WANT A LINK, YER HONNER ;"

DINNER TIME.

PART I.

One o'clock in the City is a most important period. It is looked
forward to by the " City man" with as much excitement as a school-
boy feeis in contemplating the blissful moment when class ceases and
play begins. We dine in fact in the City at one o'clock, and if you
like you may, Mr. Punch, dine with us on this occasion only. You
think you would like a chop ? Good. Pinch Lane is evidently our
destination, and Jack, or Jill, or one of the numberless Christian-
named chop purveyors of the neighbourhood shall provide us our
entertainment. Jack is a myth and does not exist, indeed there are
grave doubts as to whether Jack ever did exist, or whether he is
merely a polite fiction invented as a sign, by reason of his brevity, and
being therefore easy for busy men to pronounce. Jack is, however,
represented by a remarkably fine waiter (City head waiters are gene-
rally fine men we have observed) and a goodly crowd of attendant
sprites. One of these speedily takes our order to the cook, who,
visible to the diners present, presides at the end of the long, low,
boxed off room, at a gigantic gridiron, which is continually covered
with hissing and bubbling chops and steaks, gently browning sausages
and turbulent kidneys. Other dainties you may have, as per bill of
fare, but the man who is wise eats his simple chop or steak at Jack's
and leaves entrees alone. We will go presently and see one of the
great miscellaneous houses. Every body goes to Jack's, and I think,
it is almost the only place we know of in the City which has no defined
class of visitors. Here comes Mr. Contango the Stockbroker, one of
the old, respectable, steady school. There is no humbug about Con-
tango, men will tell you, he is "warm," and they think that young
Tom Scripton is a lucky fellow to be engaged to Miss C, with a
share in the business in perspective. Contango has a very nice box,
as he mildly calls it, out Hornsey way, and although he has one of the
first businesses of its kind in the City, does not disdain the 'bus to
convey him to the City.

Different are the habits of little Joe Charter, 'the shipbroker's
clerk, who comes rattling down to "the shop" every morning in
the dashingest of Hansom's cabs, and may now be seen ordering
and devouring the best of everything Jack's can give him. He is
an immense swell ,is Joe, and loud on all theatrical and operatic
matters. He always attends first nights, and goes to the opera, as a
matter of course, twice in the season, where he patronises the gallery,
and has, I am given to understand, a magnificent view of the great
central chandelier from that elevation. He is likewise, the wit of his
office, and much given to indulge in snatches of wild harmony at

improper periods. Still, he is generally popular, and it is universally
allowed, that " there is no harm in Joe."

Rafael's opposite, is a very different sort of establishment to Jack's,
and is great in lunches. It is very small, perhaps inconveniently so,
and the down-stair boxes are limited to two rabbit-hutches, stowed
away at the end of the shop. There is, besides, a counter, at which
Miss Rafael, fairest of her sex, presides and carves impossible joints
with the sweetest of smiles, and sharpest of knives. Up-stairs the
room is set out with chairs and table, and we are waited upon by a
neat-handed Phillis, who attends to our little wants as if she loved
us. Down-stairs the same kind office is performed by a splendid per-
sonage, not unlike our youthful ideas of a duke or prince of the blood,
with a pair of whiskers to turn all Capel Court pale with envy.
Whiskers are very fine at Rafael's, as it is frequented by most of the
young stock and shipbrokers of the neighbourhood. Awful beings
these for the most part. There is more haw-haw about them than
about most West End exquisites, and their cool superciliousness is
astounding. Towards the end of their repast, however, they generally
thaw a little, and endeavour to get up a mild sort of flirtation with
Miss Rafael, who treats them with edifying calmness, and like
Wertiier's Charlotte, "keeps on cutting bread-and-butter." What won-
derful shapes they trim those whiskers into ! and why are they almost
invariably red ? A profound question, and admitting of many
theories.

But I am detaining you too long in Pinch Lane, and we will conse-
quently leave it for fresh fields and eating-houses new. I wouldn't
advise you to go into the billiard-rooms at the corner, as perhaps you
j might find it "hot;" also it is perhaps doubtful if you would get paid
if you won much.

Therefore take our advice, and let us go on to the great American
dining-house in Cornhill. The American is, as you will at once per-
ceive, slap bang to the core, No end of boxes. Hard seats. Peram-
bulating proprietor in black satin waistcoat. We wish the table-cloth
were a little cleaner, but what of that ? Nobody seems to mind, so we
must take it as it comes, and make ourselves as comfortable as circum-
stances will admit. The eatables and drinkables are good, and that is
the great point after all. The American has a very large connection, prin-
cipally among clerks. There they are, old and young, seedy and swell.
The swell element predominates. It is easily done in these days of
Sydenham trousers and Inverness capes. Those four boys in the
further box are from the great banking-house close by ; they are
luxuriating in cod and oyster sauce, which they look upon as the
greatest delicacy of the season, and prefer to beef and mutton, as being
a greater treat. They are rather a nuisance, as they talk shop a good
deal, indeed that is rather a common characteristic in the City.

Look at this old fellow who has just come in. Dressed in black, he
is, with a marvellously stiff collar, and a brooch stuck into his shirt,
which (the brooch) clearly cannot be there for any use, and is more
clearly still no ornament. He sits down with the greatest deliberation,
and orders a plate of whatever is in best cut, and producing a Morning
Star from his pocket, disappears at once into politics. He is quite a
character, and my first introduction to him was peculiar. I was quietly
reading my paper after dinner, when my attention was attracted by a
series of complicated sniffs and coughs, which I thought odd, but took
no further notice of. Presently a tapping at my paper took place, and
on looking up I saw my friend with a tioubled air looking over the
top of it. " Sir," he said,'" will you be kind enough to decide a little
difference between myself and James?"—'; James ? " I replied, in-
terrogatively.—" The waiter. I believe you had beef?" I admitted
the soft impeachment. " Did you find it at all tough ? "—" Well, yes
a little." My friend turned round to James with an air of the
sublimest satisfaction, and observed, " Remember, James, argument
should always be supported by the effects of personal observation."
Which he evidently thought a crusher, but which I didn't understand.

QUITE ACCOUNTS FOP IT.

" Dear Mr. Punch,

" Thursday's Globe had a stupid paragraph about a Rev. Mr.
Rees of Sunderland, who has been denouncing Crinoline from the pul-
pit. I like his impudence ! Depend upon it, he's in love with a scrag,
and a badly-dressed scrag too,—who, not wearing ajupe herself, per-
suades her narrow-minded admirer to abuse the elegant fashion of the
day. My brother Ned (who has just peeped over my shoulder) says
I'm to say, 'It's a case of Res angusta Domi.' What that means I
don't know, but he says it's the best thing in my letter, so I put it in
for your readers to find out, and remain, dear Mr. Punch,

" Yours affectionately.

" Blanche Bellowsblown."

To Make Game Pie.—To make Game Pie, procure your Game
1 from poachers, and then you will have it ready boned.