The Madrid has a capital cellar of wine.
On a race-morning I have eaten a little breakfast, well enough served,
at the restaurant of the Cafe de la Cascade.
Supping-Places
The fickle Parisian crowd changes its supping-places without any
apparent cause. A few hundred francs spent in gilding a ceiling, a
quarrel between two damsels in gigantic hats as to which of them ordered
a particular table to be reserved, and the whole cloud of butterflies
rises to settle elsewhere. Julien's, Sylvain's, La Rue's, the Cafe de La
Paix, Maire's, Paillard's all had their time when there was not a vacant
seat in their rooms at 1 A.M. Durand's, in the summer of '92, was the
society supping-place. At the Cafe de Paris, where M. Mourier, a former
_maitre-d'hotel_ of Maire's reigns, the British matron and the
travelling American gaze at the _haute cocotterie_--who patronise the
right fork of the room as you enter. At Maxim's, any gentleman may
conduct the band if he wishes to, and the tables are often cleared away
and a little impromptu dance organised. At the Cafe Americain, the
profession of the ladies who frequent it at supper-time is a little too
obvious. You should take your wife to Durand's. She will insist on going
to the Cafe de Paris. You should not take her to Maxim's, and you cannot
take her to the Americain.
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