The City That Was | Page 9

anyone in the town could be seen there off
and on. It was perfectly respectable. A man might take his wife and
daughter to the Poodle Dog.
On the second floor there were private dining rooms, and to dine there,
with one or more of the opposite sex, was risque but not especially
terrible. But the third floor - and the fourth floor - and the fifth! The
elevator man of the Poodle Dog, who had held the job for many years
and who never spoke unless spoken to, wore diamonds and was a heavy
investor in real estate. There were others as famous in their way - the
Zinkand, where, at one time, every one went after the theatre, and
Tate's, which has lately bitten into that trade; the Palace Grill, much
like the grills of Eastern hotels, except for the price; Delmonico's,
which ran the Poodle Dog neck and neck to its own line; and many
others, humbler but great at the price.
Listen! O ye starved amidst plenty, to the tale of the Hotel de France.
This restaurant stood on California street, just east of Old St. Mary's
Church. One could throw a biscuit from its back windows into
Chinatown. It occupied a big ramshackle house, which had been a
mansion of the gold days. Louis, the proprietor, was a Frenchman of
the Bas Pyrenees; and his accent was as thick as his peasant soups. The
patrons were Frenchmen of the poorer class, or young and poor clerks
and journalists who had discovered the delights of his hostelry. The

place exhuded a genial gaiety, of which Louis, throwing out familiar
jokes to right and left as he mixed salads and carried dishes, was the
head and front.
First on the bill of fare was the soup mentioned before - thick and clean
and good. Next, one of Louis' three cherubic little sons brought on a
course of fish - sole, rock cod, flounders or smelt - with a good French
sauce. The third course was meat. This came on en bloc; the waiter
dropped in the centre of each table a big roast or boiled joint together
with a mustard pot and two big dishes of vegetables. Each guest
manned the carving knife in turn and helped himself to his satisfaction.
After that, Louis, with an air of ceremony, brought on a big bowl of
excellent salad which he had mixed himself. For beverage, there stood
by each plate a perfectly cylindrical pint glass filled with new, watered
claret. The meal closed with "fruit in season" - all that the guest cared
to eat. I have saved a startling fact to close the paragraph - the price
was fifteen cents!
If one wanted black coffee he paid five cents extra, and Louis brought
on a beer glass full of it. Why he threw in wine and charged extra for
after-dinner coffee was one of Louis' professional secrets.
Adulterated food at that price? Not a bit of it! The olive oil in the salad
was pure, California product - why adulterate when he could get it so
cheaply? The wine, too, was above reproach, for Louis made it himself.
Every autumn, he brought tons and tons of cheap Mission grapes, set
up a wine press in his back yard, and had a little, festival vintage of his
own. The fruit was small, and inferior, but fresh, and Louis himself, in
speaking of his business, said that he wished his guests would eat
nothing but fruit, it came so cheap.
The city never went to bed. There was no closing law, so that the
saloons kept open nights and Sundays at their own sweet will. Most of
the cafes elected to remain open until 2 o'clock in the morning at least.
This restaurant life, however does not express exactly the careless,
pleasure-loving character of the people. In great part their pleasures
were simple, inexpensive and out of doors. No people were fonder of
expeditions into the country, of picnics - which might be brought off at
almost any season of the year - and of long tours in the great mountains
and forests.
Hospitality was nearly a vice. As in the early mining days, if they liked

the stranger the people took him in. At the first meeting the San
Francisco man had him put up at the club; at the second, he invited him
home to dinner. As long as the stranger stayed he was being invited to
week end parties at ranches, to little dinners in this or that restaurant
and to the houses of his new acquaintances, until his engagements grew
beyond hope of fulfilment. Perhaps there was rather too much of this
kind of thing. At the end of a fortnight a visitor with a pleasant smile