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Engineering mechanics of deformable solids a
presentation with exercises 1st ed Edition Sanjay
Govindjee Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Sanjay Govindjee
ISBN(s): 9780199651641, 0199651647
Edition: 1st ed
File Details: PDF, 2.13 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
ENGINEERING MECHANICS OF DEFORMABLE SOLIDS
This page intentionally left blank
Engineering Mechanics
of Deformable Solids

A Presentation with Exercises

SANJAY GOVINDJEE
Department of Civil and Environmental Engineering
University of California, Berkeley

1
3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries

c Sanjay Govindjee 2013
The moral rights of the author has been asserted
First Edition published in 2013
Impression: 1
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a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
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above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
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You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
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Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
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ISBN 978–0–19–965164–1
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To my teachers who showed me the beauty of learning,
To my parents who led me to academia,
To Arjun and Rajiv for loving all things technical,
To Marilyn for always being there for all of us
Preface

This text was developed for a Strength of Materials course I have taught
at the University of California, Berkeley for more than 15 years. The stu-
dents in this course are typically second-semester Sophomores and first-
semester Juniors. They have already studied one semester of mechanics
in the Physics Department and had a separate two-unit engineering
course in statics, and most have also completed or are concurrently
completing a four-semester mathematics sequence in calculus, linear
algebra, and ordinary and partial differential equations. Additionally
they have already completed a laboratory course on materials. With
regard to this background, the essential prerequisites for this text are
the basic physics course in mechanics and the mathematics background
(elementary one- and multi-dimensional integration, linear ordinary
differential equations with constant coefficients, introduction to partial
differentiation, and concepts of matrices and eigen-problems). The addi-
tional background is helpful but not required. While there is a wealth
of texts appropriate for such a course, they uniformly leave much to be
desired by focusing heavily on special techniques of analysis overlaid with
a dizzying array of examples, as opposed to focusing on basic principles
of mechanics. The outlook of such books is perfectly valid and serves a
useful purpose, but does not place students in a good position for higher
studies.
The goal of this text is to provide a self-contained, concise description
of the main material of this type of course in a modern way. The emphasis
is upon kinematic relations and assumptions, equilibrium relations, con-
stitutive relations, and the construction of appropriate sets of equations
in a manner in which the underlying assumptions are clearly exposed.
The preparation given puts weight upon model development as opposed
to solution technique. This is not to say that problem-solving is not
a large part of the material presented, but it does mean that “solving
a problem” involves two key items: the formulation of the governing
equations of a model, and then their solution. A central motivation for
placing emphasis upon the formulation of governing equations is that
many problems, and especially many interesting problems, first require
modeling before solution. Often such problems are not amenable to hand
solution, and thus they are solved numerically. In well-posed numerical
computations one needs a clear definition of a complete set of equations
with boundary conditions. For effective further studies in mechanics
 Preface vii

this viewpoint is essential, and thus the presentation, in this regard,

is strongly influenced by the need to adequately prepare students for
further study in modern methods.
Sanjay Govindjee
Berkeley and Zürich
This page intentionally left blank
Contents

1 Introduction 1
1.1 Force systems 2
1.1.1 Units 2
1.2 Characterization of force systems 3
1.2.1 Distributed forces 3
1.2.2 Equivalent forces systems 5
1.3 Work and power 6
1.3.1 Conservative forces 7
1.3.2 Conservative systems 8
1.4 Static equilibrium 8
1.4.1 Equilibrium of a body 8
1.4.2 Virtual work and virtual power 8
1.5 Equilibrium of subsets: Free-body diagrams 9
1.5.1 Internal force diagram 9
1.6 Dimensional homogeneity 11
Exercises 11

2 Tension–Compression Bars: The One-Dimensional

Case 13
2.1 Displacement field and strain 13
2.1.1 Units 14
2.1.2 Strain at a point 15
2.2 Stress 17
2.2.1 Units 17
2.2.2 Pointwise equilibrium 17
2.3 Constitutive relations 18
2.3.1 One-dimensional Hooke’s Law 18
2.3.2 Additional constitutive behaviors 19
2.4 A one-dimensional theory of mechanical response 19
2.4.1 Axial deformation of bars: Examples 19
2.4.2 Differential equation approach 26
2.5 Energy methods 31
2.6 Stress-based design 34
Chapter summary 35
Exercises 36
x Contents

3 Stress 41
3.1 Average normal and shear stress 41
3.1.1 Average stresses for a bar under axial load 42
3.1.2 Design with average stresses 43
3.2 Stress at a point 46
3.2.1 Nomenclature 47
3.2.2 Internal reactions in terms of stresses 48
3.2.3 Equilibrium in terms of stresses 50
3.3 Polar and spherical coordinates 53
3.3.1 Cylindrical/polar stresses 54
3.3.2 Spherical stresses 55
Chapter summary 56
Exercises 56

4 Strain 59
4.1 Shear strain 59
4.2 Pointwise strain 59
4.2.1 Normal strain at a point 60
4.2.2 Shear strain at a point 61
4.2.3 Two-dimensional strains 62
4.2.4 Three-dimensional strain 63
4.3 Polar/cylindrical and spherical strain 64
4.4 Number of unknowns and equations 64
Chapter summary 65
Exercises 65

5 Constitutive Response 67
5.1 Three-dimensional Hooke’s Law 67
5.1.1 Pressure 69
5.1.2 Strain energy in three dimensions 70
5.2 Two-dimensional Hooke’s Law 70
5.2.1 Two-dimensional plane stress 70
5.2.2 Two-dimensional plane strain 71
5.3 One-dimensional Hooke’s Law: Uniaxial state
of stress 72
5.4 Polar/cylindrical and spherical coordinates 72
Chapter summary 72
Exercises 73

6 Basic Techniques of Strength of Materials 75

6.1 One-dimensional axially loaded rod revisited 75
6.2 Thinness 79
6.2.1 Cylindrical thin-walled pressure vessels 79
6.2.2 Spherical thin-walled pressure vessels 81
6.3 Saint-Venant’s principle 82
Chapter summary 85
Exercises 86
 Contents xi

7 Circular and Thin-Wall Torsion 89

7.1 Circular bars: Kinematic assumption 89
7.2 Circular bars: Equilibrium 92
7.2.1 Internal torque–stress relation 93
7.3 Circular bars: Elastic response 94
7.3.1 Elastic examples 94
7.3.2 Differential equation approach 103
7.4 Energy methods 107
7.5 Torsional failure: Brittle materials 108
7.6 Torsional failure: Ductile materials 110
7.6.1 Twist-rate at and beyond yield 110
7.6.2 Stresses beyond yield 111
7.6.3 Torque beyond yield 112
7.6.4 Unloading after yield 113
7.7 Thin-walled tubes 116
7.7.1 Equilibrium 117
7.7.2 Shear flow 117
7.7.3 Internal torque–stress relation 118
7.7.4 Kinematics of thin-walled tubes 119
Chapter summary 121
Exercises 122

8 Bending of Beams 128

8.1 Symmetric bending: Kinematics 128
8.2 Symmetric bending: Equilibrium 131
8.2.1 Internal resultant definitions 132
8.3 Symmetric bending: Elastic response 136
8.3.1 Neutral axis 136
8.3.2 Elastic examples: Symmetric bending stresses 138
8.4 Symmetric bending: Elastic deflections by differential
equations 144
8.5 Symmetric multi-axis bending 148
8.5.1 Symmetric multi-axis bending: Kinematics 149
8.5.2 Symmetric multi-axis bending: Equilibrium 149
8.5.3 Symmetric multi-axis bending: Elastic 150
8.6 Shear stresses 152
8.6.1 Equilibrium construction for shear stresses 153
8.6.2 Energy methods: Shear deformation of beams 158
8.7 Plastic bending 158
8.7.1 Limit cases 159
8.7.2 Bending at and beyond yield: Rectangular
cross-section 161
8.7.3 Stresses beyond yield: Rectangular cross-section 163
8.7.4 Moment beyond yield: Rectangular cross-section 163
8.7.5 Unloading after yield: Rectangular cross-section 164
Chapter summary 167
Exercises 168
xii Contents

9 Analysis of Multi-Axial Stress and Strain 179

9.1 Transformation of vectors 179
9.2 Transformation of stress 180
9.2.1 Traction vector method 181
9.2.2 Maximum normal and shear stresses 184
9.2.3 Eigenvalues and eigenvectors 185
9.2.4 Mohr’s circle of stress 187
9.2.5 Three-dimensional Mohr’s circles of stress 190
9.3 Transformation of strains 192
9.3.1 Maximum normal and shear strains 193
9.4 Multi-axial failure criteria 197
9.4.1 Tresca’s yield condition 198
9.4.2 Henky–von Mises condition 200
Chapter summary 204
Exercises 205

10 Virtual Work Methods: Virtual Forces 209

10.1 The virtual work theorem: Virtual force version 209
10.2 Virtual work expressions 211
10.2.1 Determination of displacements 211
10.2.2 Determination of rotations 211
10.2.3 Axial rods 212
10.2.4 Torsion rods 213
10.2.5 Bending of beams 214
10.2.6 Direct shear in beams (elastic only) 215
10.3 Principle of virtual forces: Proof 217
10.3.1 Axial bar: Proof 217
10.3.2 Beam bending: Proof 218
10.4 Applications: Method of virtual forces 220
Chapter summary 225
Exercises 226

11 Potential-Energy Methods 230

11.1 Potential energy: Spring-mass system 230
11.2 Stored elastic energy: Continuous systems 232
11.3 Castigliano’s first theorem 235
11.4 Stationary complementary potential energy 236
11.5 Stored complementary energy: Continuous systems 237
11.6 Castigliano’s second theorem 240
11.7 Stationary potential energy: Approximate methods 246
11.8 Ritz’s method 250
11.9 Approximation errors 254
11.9.1 Types of error 254
11.9.2 Estimating error in Ritz’s method 255
11.9.3 Selecting functions for Ritz’s method 257
Chapter summary 258
Exercises 259
 Contents xiii

12 Geometric Instability 263

12.1 Point-mass pendulum: Stability 263
12.2 Instability: Rigid links 264
12.2.1 Potential energy: Stability 265
12.2.2 Small deformation assumption 267
12.3 Euler buckling of beam-columns 270
12.3.1 Equilibrium 270
12.3.2 Applications 271
12.3.3 Limitations to the buckling formulae 274
12.4 Eccentric loads 275
12.4.1 Rigid links 275
12.4.2 Euler columns 277
12.5 Approximate solutions 278
12.5.1 Buckling with distributed loads 282
12.5.2 Deflection behavior for beam-columns with
combined axial and transverse loads 285
Chapter summary 286
Exercises 287

13 Virtual Work Methods: Virtual Displacements 291

13.1 The virtual work theorem: Virtual displacement
version 291
13.2 The virtual work expressions 293
13.2.1 External work expressions 293
13.2.2 Axial rods 294
13.2.3 Torsion rods 296
13.2.4 Bending of beams 297
13.3 Principle of virtual displacements: Proof 298
13.3.1 Axial bar: Proof 299
13.3.2 Beam bending: Proof 300
13.4 Approximate methods 301
Chapter summary 307
Exercises 308

Appendix A: Additional Reading 310

Appendix B: Units, Constants, and Symbols 311

Appendix C: Representative Material Properties 315

Appendix D: Parallel-Axis Theorem 317

Appendix E: Integration Facts 318

E.1 Integration is addition in the limit 318
E.2 Additivity 320
E.3 Fundamental theorem of calculus 321
E.4 Mean value 321
E.5 The product rule and integration by parts 322
E.6 Integral theorems 323
xiv Contents

E.6.1 Mean value theorem 323

E.6.2 Localization theorem 324
E.6.3 Divergence theorem 324

Appendix F: Bending without Twisting: Shear Center 325

F.1 Shear center 325

Index 331
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with tiny strips of bamboo in it and morsels of chicken flesh, tasted
very much like the chicken broth that one is given when one is ill
and on a low diet. The fried chicken and vegetables were quite good
eating, and the taste of the bamboo shoots in it was particularly
pleasant to the palate. The roast pork I shied at, and asked instead
to be given a plate of chow chow, an admirable sweet which I have
known ever since boyhood, for one of my uncles, who was Consul at
Foo Chow, used to send home to all his small nephews presents of
this delicacy. The tea was excellent, and doing as the Chinese do, I
did not spoil its taste by adding either sugar or milk to it.

Altogether my luncheon at the Chinese Restaurant was quite a

pleasant experiment, and I can advise any gourmets who would like
to test the cookery of the Far East in comfortable surroundings to
follow my lead.

LV
 THE WHITE HORSE CELLARS
A little glass canopy with a clock above it juts out into Piccadilly, and
a tall commissionaire stands at an entrance where some stairs dive
down, apparently into the bowels of the earth. Where the stairs
make their first plunge there is above them on the wall the device of
a white horse—a fine prancing animal, somewhat resembling the
White Horse of Kent.
The stairs, with oak panelling on either side of them, give a twist
before they reach the bottom, where is the modern restaurant that
occupies the site of what were originally known as the New White
Horse Cellars, but which are now called the Old White Horse Cellars,
probably on the lucus a non lucendo principle, for they have been
modernised out of all recognition since the days when Charles
Dickens recorded the departure of Mr Pickwick from these Cellars on
his coach journey down to Bath.
The Old White Horse Cellars were originally on the Green Park side
of Piccadilly, and their number was 156, as some way-bills to be
seen at the present White Horse Cellars testify. This ground is now
occupied by the Ritz Hotel. Strype mentions the original cellar as
being in existence in 1720.
On the staircase walls of the New White Horse Cellars is a little
collection of prints and way-bills, caricatures, etchings, old bills of
Hatchett's Hotel, posters and advertisements from The Times and
other papers of the hours at which the coaches for the west started.
In this curious little gallery of odds and ends are some documents
relating to the old cellar on the other side of the road. But the White
Horse Cellars were under Hatchett's in the great coaching days, from
the year of the battle of Waterloo to 1840. It was from Hatchett's
that Jerry, in Pierce Egan's book, took his departure when going
back to Hawthorn Hall, and said farewell to Tom and Logic, and it
was in the travellers' room of the White Horse Cellars, a title that
was used alternatively with "Hatchett's," that Mr Pickwick and his
friends sheltered from the rain, waiting for the Bath coach.
Hatchett's in Dickens's time was not the comfortable house that I
knew in the eighties, when the revival of stage-coaching was at its
height. Indeed, there could not be a picture of greater discomfort
than Dickens sketched in a few words when he wrote: "The
travellers' room at 'The White Horse Cellar' is, of course,
uncomfortable; it would be no travellers' room if it were not. It is the
right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears
to have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and
shovel. It is divided into boxes for the solitary confinement of
travellers, and is furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live
waiter, which latter article is kept in a small kennel for washing
glasses, in a corner of the apartment." Dickens's word picture of the
scene at the start of the coach at half-past seven on a damp, muggy
and drizzly day is a fine pen-and-ink sketch, and Cruikshank, in one
of his caricatures, "The Piccadilly Nuisance," shows very much the
scene as Dickens described it, with the orange-women and the
sellers of all kinds of useless trifles on the kerb; the coaches jostling
each other, passengers falling off from them, and the pavement an
absolute hustle of humanity.
Cruikshank's various drawings and caricatures preserve the
appearance of Hatchett's of the old days in the memory better than
any word pictures could do. The bow-windows of the old hotel with
many panes of glass in them; the stiff pillared portico, with on it the
name "Hatchett's," and a little lamp before it, and above it the board
with the inscription, "The New White Horse Cellar. Coaches and
waggons to all parts of the kingdom." Above this board again was a
painting of an old white horse. I fancy that the title of the Cellars,
when they were on the other side of the way, must have been taken
from some celebrated old horse—though Williams, who was the first
landlord of the original cellars, is said to have given them their name
as a compliment to the House of Hanover, and that it was the white
horse, not the cellar, that was old.
There are various other legends with respect to the horse that gave
Hatchett's its title, one of them being that Abraham Hatchett, a
proprietor of the tavern, had an old white horse with a turn of speed
which had won him many a wager against more showy animals.
The entrance to the Cellars below Hatchett's, in the old days, was
down some very steep stairs just in front of one of the bow-
windows, and an oval notice, hanging from a little arch of iron,
directed people down into the depths to the booking-office.
My reminiscences of Hatchett's are of the later revivals of road
coaches; the days of old "Jim" Selby, the famous coachman who,
though everybody called him "old," died a comparatively young man.
His grey hair and his jolly, fat, rosy face gave him an appearance of
being older than he really was. Those were the days when the late
Lord Londesborough and Captain Hargreaves, Mr Walter Shoolbred,
Captain Beckett, Baron Oppenheim and Mr Edwin Fownes were well-
known whips, and when "Hughie" Drummond, and the host of other
good fellows and lively customers in whose veins the red blood
flowed in a lively current, who drank old port and despised early
hours, were the men about town. "Hughie" Drummond taking old
"Jim" Selby out to dinner after the arrival of the "Old Times" from
Brighton and changing hats with him, which generally took place
early in the evening, is one of my remembrances of Hatchett's. And
many a time have I split a pint with "Dickie-the-Driver," the oldest in
standing amongst my friends, then not the least lively of the young
fellows, before climbing up on to the coach at Hatchett's to go down
to the Derby. For many years eight of us, always the same men,
went down by coach from Hatchett's on Derby Day, always with
"Dickie" driving out of London and the last stage on to the downs,
and our gallop down and up the hill on the course was a really
breakneck performance.
It was from Hatchett's that "Jim" Selby started on his celebrated
drive with the Brighton coach, "Old Times," to Brighton and back, for
a wager of a thousand pounds to five hundred against his
accomplishing the journey in eight hours. On the coach were: Selby
himself, driving; Captain Beckett, whom we all called "Partner"; Mr
Carleton Blyth, who still sends yearly from Bude his greeting of
"Cheero" to his old friends; Mr "Swish" Broadwood, Mr "Bob" Cosier,
Mr A. F. M'Adam, and the guard. Harrington Bird's picture of the
coach during the galloping stage, with the horses going at racing
pace, gives an idea of how Selby drove on that day when he had a
clear road. The coach reached the "Old Sip" at Brighton, having
done the first half of the journey in just under four hours; stayed
there only long enough to turn the coach round and to read a
telegram from the old Duke of Beaufort, who was most keenly
interested in the revival of coaching, and who was a very good man
himself on the box seat—and then started again for London,
reaching the White Horse Cellars ten minutes under the stipulated
time and forty minutes within the record. I was one of the men
amongst the crowd that gathered to see the return of the coach and
to cheer old "Jim" Selby, who brought his last team in no more
distressed than they would have been doing their journey under
ordinary circumstances. How highly respected Selby was by all
coaching men was shown by the long string of stage-coaches, every
coach on the road having suspended its usual journey, which
followed his body to the grave.
In those days the bill of fare at Hatchett's was roast beef or boiled
mutton and trimmings; duck and green peas, or fowl and bath-chap.
There was an inner sanctuary then called "Uncle Tom's Cabin," which
was the bar parlour, into which only the most favoured patrons of
the house were admitted, and Miss Wills, the manageress, used to
keep any unruly spirits very much in order.
When Hatchett's was rebuilt and changed its name it changed hands
very frequently, though the White Horse Cellars always remained a
restaurant. The Cercle de Luxe, a dining club, at one time occupied
the upper floors of the building, and then it became the Avondale
Hotel, with M. Garin as manager and M. Dutruz as chef. Since then
the rooms have been put to many uses, and are now, I see, once
again in the market.
It is the memory of what Hatchett's and the White Horse Cellars
have been in their old days—memories that haunt me like the sound
of a horn afar off on one of the great roads—that makes me
disinclined nowadays to eat a French dinner in what was a home of
good English fare; and whenever I lunch or dine in the White Horse
Cellars to-day I always, for the sake of old times, order a plate of
soup, a mixed grill and a scoop from the cheese. The three-and-
sixpenny dinner of to-day is, I have no doubt, a good one, and Mr
Stump, the present manager, is most courteous and anxious to
oblige. I look at the menu when I am in the restaurant, but for the
old sake's sake I keep as close to the meals of old days as the
resources of the establishment allow me to do.
The White Horse Cellars of to-day is a modern, up-to-date
restaurant, below the level of the ground, though the ventilation is
so excellent and the lighting arrangements so good that one never
has the sensation of being in a cellar. Half-way down the staircase,
just where the little picture gallery commences, a door leads into a
buffet. One's great-coat and hat are taken at the bottom of the
stairs, and then one enters quite a lofty room with a groined roof,
and with cosy nooks and various extensions of the bigger room,
which, I fancy, have been thrown out under the side-walk above.
The walls of the restaurant are of cream colour; the ornamentation
is in the style of Adams, and there is deep rose colour in the arches
of the roof. Many mirrors reflect the vistas and give the rooms the
appearance of being more extensive than they really are: a string
band is perched up in a little gallery; there are palms here and there,
and a bronze galloping horse in a recess does something to recall
the old horsy days of Hatchett's.
There are many little tables, each with its pink-shaded lamp, in this
restaurant, and it has a chic clientele, the "Nuts" of to-day appearing
to patronise it just as much as the bucks and the bloods, the swells,
and the "whips" of the last two generations used to. I see pretty
actresses sometimes dining at Hatchett's, and it is a very cheerful
restaurant in which to take a meal. It is, I believe, always crowded
at supper-time, and the Glorias, the two excellent dancers who
appear earlier in the evening on the Empire stage, dance the Tango,
at midnight, in and out of the little tables.
But to me the charm of the White Horse Cellars is that I can live
again in memory, when lunching or dining there, those joyous days
of youth and fresh air, when a jolly coach-load used to start from
before its door for a day of delight in sitting behind good horses
driven by a good whip, listening to the music of the shod hooves and
the guard's horn, receiving a greeting from everyone along the road,
and feeling that no king on a throne is happier than a man riding
behind a picked team on a good coach. Motor cars have their uses
and their pleasures, but they seem to have killed the fuller-blooded
joys that came with coaching.

LVI

THE MONICO
The Monico, in Piccadilly Circus, which is both café and restaurant, is
an establishment which has been brought to its present prosperity
by Swiss industry and Swiss thrift. The original M. Monico, the father
of the present proprietors of the restaurant, came from the same
village in the Val Blegno, in the Italian provinces of Switzerland, as
did the Gattis. M. Monico was with that Gatti, the great-uncle of the
present Messrs Gatti, who sold gaufres and penny ices in Villiers
Street, and who when Hungerford Market was swept away and
Charing Cross Station built established the Gatti's restaurant under
the arches.
About fifty years ago, just at the time that MM. A. and S. Gatti were
establishing themselves in the Adelaide Gallery, young M. Monico,
who died only three years ago, was also making an independent
start on the road to fortune. Looking about for a site on which to
build a café he had found, off Tichborne Street, a large yard where
coaches and waggons stood, and round which was stabling for
horses. This yard he leased, and built on its site the Grand Café with
the present International Hall above it. M. Monico had intended to
put up a tall building, but the neighbours objected to this; he was
obliged to alter his plans, and in consequence, whereas the café is a
very high room, the International Hall above it is rather squat in its
proportions. Those were the days in which billiards was a game
much in favour, and in the International Hall above the café M.
Monico established a number of billiard-tables. When the craze for
billiards died away the long upper room, with its arched ceiling,
became a banqueting hall. Fifty years ago the licensing magistrates
looked with just as much suspicion on any new enterprises in
restaurants as they do at the present day, and the Monico could not
at first obtain a licence to sell wines and spirits. This, however, was
later on granted to M. Monico.
I fancy that there must have been a good deal of the Italian
combative spirit in old M. Monico, for he seems to have been at
loggerheads with more than one of his neighbours. To-day, when
you have gone in under the glass canopy with two gables which
protects the Piccadilly Circus entrance, when you have passed the
little stall for the sale of foreign newspapers and have come into the
café which acts as an ante-room to the great gilded saloon, you will
notice that part of this café has a solid ceiling and that the other half
is glazed over. The glazed-over portion was, in old M. Monico's time,
an open space, and into this open space a neighbour, a perfumer,
had the right to bring carts and horses in the course of his business.
This right the perfumer exercised on occasion, to the great
annoyance of M. Monico, and the present Messrs Monico recall with
a smile how the perfumer would often bring in a great van with two
horses to deliver a couple of small packages that any messenger boy
could have carried.
The clearing away of a block of houses when Piccadilly Circus was
given its present proportions gave the Monico its entrance on to that
centre, and when Shaftesbury Avenue was driven through the
network of small streets in Soho, M. Monico and his sons obtained a
second frontage for their restaurant and built the block which
contains the grill-room, the buffet and banqueting-rooms, now
topped by the new masonic temple, the latest addition to the
Monico.
The Monico of to-day is one of those great bee-hives of dining-
rooms that cater for every class of diner. It has its little café and its
big à la carte dining-saloon, its grill-room, its banqueting-rooms and
its German beer cellar down in the basement. It has two marble
staircases, one leading down to Piccadilly Circus and one to
Shaftesbury Avenue, and its big saloon, the original café, is as
gorgeous a hall as gilding can make it. Its walls are of gold and
mirrors and raised ornamentation, with the windows high up, and
with a golden balcony for the musicians. It has a gilded ceiling and
its pilasters are also golden. An orchestra plays in this room,
whereas in the grill-room those who like their meals without
orchestral accompaniment can eat them in peace. Up and down the
great gilded room walk four maîtres d'hôtel in frock-coats and black
ties, and a battalion of waiters are busy running from tables to
kitchen. The bill of fare in the gilded chamber is a most
comprehensive one, and any man of any nationality can find some of
the dishes of his country on it. It is a beer restaurant as well as a
wine restaurant, and the simplest possible meal, very well cooked,
can be eaten there as well as elaborate feasts.
The grill-room is less gorgeous in its decorations, though its buff
marble pillars and walls are handsome enough. It is in this room that
the table d'hôte dinners at half-a-crown and three-and-six are
served, and it is here that many men of business feed, and feed
excellently well. Not many days ago I lunched in the grill-room, my
host being a gourmet who knew all the resources of the
establishment, and I enjoyed the sole Monico, a sole with an
excellent white sauce; a woodcock flambé and a salad of tender
lettuce which, like the beautiful peaches with which we finished our
repast, must have been grown in some Southern, sunshiny clime. I
also enjoyed the cheese fondue, made, I think, from the recette that
Brillat Savarin set down in his "Physiologie du Goût."
The Monico has gained special celebrity for its banquets, and the
requests for dates for such feasts made to the Messrs Monico have
been so overwhelming that they have turned the Renaissance
Saloon, which used to be devoted to a table d'hôte dinner, into a
banqueting-room, and have redecorated it for its new uses.
It remains in my memory that men who were present at the banquet
given to Lord Milner in the International Hall of the Monico before he
left England to take up his duties as Pro-Consul in South Africa, and
who talked to me afterwards of the feast, told me that it was the
best public dinner, best served and best cooked, that they had ever
eaten, and last year, when I dined at the Poincaré dinner of the
Ligue des Gourmands, which was held in the Renaissance Room (the
occasion on which M. Escoffier's "creation" of the poulet Poincaré
was first disclosed to a discriminating gathering), I thought then that
M. Sieffert's (the chef) handiwork was worthy of all the praise
lavished on it, and that M. G. Ramoni, the manager, had arranged
most admirably all the details of the banquet. The Renaissance
Room now quite justifies its title, for its decoration of peacock blue
panels and frames of gilded briar, with strange birds perched on the
sprays, somewhat suggests Burne-Jones and the colouring of his
school.
As a specimen of a Monico banquet I cannot do better than give you
one eaten by that famous Kentish cricketing club, the Band of
Brothers, the menu of whose dinner bears their badge in dark and
light blue, and has also a bow of their ribbon:
Huîtres de Whitstable
Fantaisie Epicurienne.
Tortue verte en Tasse.
Turbotin poché, Sauce Mousseline.
Julienne de Sole Parisienne.
Mousse de Volaille Régence.
Côtelettes d'Agneau Rothschild.
Pommes Anna.
Punch Romaine.
 Bécassine sur Canapé.
Salade de Laitue.
Escalope de Homard Pompadour.
Pêche Flambé au Kirsch.
Paillettes au Parmesan.
Fruits.
Corbeille de Friandises
Café.

Vins.
Amontillado.
Marcobrunner, 1904.
Bollinger and Co., 1904.
Lanson, 1906.
Martinez Port, 1896.
Grand Fine Champagne, 1875.
Many of the banquets given at the Monico are masonic ones, and
the new temple at the top of the house on the Shaftesbury Avenue
side is a very splendid shrine, with walls of marble and a dome
round which the signs of the zodiac circle, and with doors and
furniture of great beauty.

LVII

THE ITALIAN INVASION

The plains of Lombardy, the pleasant mountain land of Emilia and
the champaign that surrounds Turin, are studded with comfortable
villas, the property of successful Italian restaurateurs who have
made a comfortable little fortune in London and who go to their own
much-loved country to spend the autumn of their days. Every young
North Italian waiter who comes to England believes that in the folds
of his napkin he holds one of these pleasant villas, just as every
French conscript in Napoleonic days thought that he, amongst all his
fellows, alone felt the extra weight of the field-marshal's baton in his
knapsack. No race in the world is more thrifty and more industrious
than are these North Italians, and they rival the Swiss in their
aptitude for making considerable sums of money by charging very
small prices.
Spain and Great Britain are usually classed together as the two
countries in which the natives know least of economy in
housekeeping and cookery, and the Italians, spying the wastefulness
of the land, have descended on England as a friendly invading force,
whereas the Swiss have taken Spain in hand. There is no Spanish
town in which there is not a café Suizio, and there are very few
English towns in which an Italian name is not found over a
restaurant, which is often a pastry-cook's shop as well.
I have in preceding chapters written of some of the restaurants
owned by Italians in London, but were I to deal at length with all the
well-managed restaurants, large and small, controlled by Italians in
London, I should have to extend the size of my book to very swollen
proportions, so I propose to mention briefly those Italian restaurants
at which at one time or another I have lunched or dined with
satisfaction.
One of the largest Italian restaurants is the Florence, in Rupert
Street, which the late M. Azario, a gentleman of much importance in
the London Italian colony, made one of the most successful
moderate-priced restaurants in London. He was decorated with an
Italian order, and when he died, not long ago, he was much
mourned by his countrymen. Madame Azario (who is now Madame
Mainardi and who has appointed her husband, whom I remember at
the Savoy, to the supreme command of the establishment), to whom
he left the restaurant, has made some changes in it, bringing it up to
date. It now has a lounge where hosts can wait for their guests, and
it has fallen a victim to the prevailing craze for Tango dancing at
supper-time. Its three-shilling dinner is a most satisfying one at the
price. The Florence is not too whole-heartedly Italian to please
diners of other nationalities, but when an Italian gives a lunch or a
dinner to his fellow-countrymen or to those who love the cookery of
Italy, it can be as patriotic in the matter of dishes as any restaurant
in Italy. This is the menu of a lunch given to one of the most Italian
of Englishmen. It is a capital example of an Italian meal, and there is
a little joke tucked away in it, for the "Neapolitan Vanilla" is another
way of writing garlic:
Antipasto Assortito.
Ravioli alla Fiorentina.
Trotta à l'Italiana.
Scalloppine di Vitello alla Milanese.
Asparagi alla Sant'Ambrogio.
Pollo alla Spiedo.
Insalata Rosa alla Vaniglia di Napoli.
Zabaglione al Marsala.
Formaggio.
Frutta.

*****

Chianti.
Barolo vecchio.
Asti naturale.
Caffe.
Liquori.
One of the first established and one of the best of the Italian
restaurants is Previtali's, in Arundel Street, that little thoroughfare
that runs up into a cul-de-sac square, off Coventry Street. It was
said a while ago that this little square and its approach were to be
eaten up by a new great variety theatre, but I see that the ground is
now advertised as being for sale. Below the great board which
announces this is a smaller one, which tells that Previtali's is to
remain where it is till September 1915, when it will find other
quarters. Its table d'hôte luncheon costs half-a-crown, and its table
d'hôte dinners are priced at three-and-six and five shillings, the
latter giving such a choice of food that not even a starving man
would ask for more when he had gone through the menu. Previtali's
has an excellent cellar of Italian wines.
Many of the restaurants owned by Italians in London have a clientele
that suits the size of the house, and they do not cry aloud by bold
advertisements for fresh guests. Such a quiet, unassuming
restaurant is the Quadrant, in Regent Street, the windows of which
keep their eyes half closed by pink blinds which shut off the view of
the interior from passers-by. Messrs Formaggia and Galiardi cater
there for very faithful customers, and I always look with interest as I
pass at the menu of the half-crown dinner which is written in a bold
hand and shown in a small frame by the window. It is always a well-
chosen meal, and on the occasions that I have eaten at the
Quadrant, I have been well satisfied with its fare. It was at the
Quadrant that a gourmet with a taste for strange foods gave me a
lunch of land-crabs which had been imported with much difficulty
from either Barbadoes or the West Indies, and which Mr Formaggia's
chef had cooked strictly in accordance with the recipe that came
with them. They had, I remember, rather a bitter taste, but perhaps
land-crabs, like snails, are not to everybody's taste.
In Soho, the Italian restaurants jostle the French restaurants in
every street. Perhaps the best known of the Soho restaurants owned
by Italians is the Ristorante d'Italia, whereof Signor Baglioni is the
proprietor, which thrusts out an illuminated arum amidst the electric
globes and glittering signs of Old Compton Street. My memories of
the half-crown table d'hôte dinner there is of food excellently cooked
under the superintendence of an erstwhile chef de cuisine of the
Prince of Monaco, of the noise of much talking in vehement Italian,
of rather close quarters at little tables laid for four, and of a menu of
rather portentous provender.
The most Italian of any restaurant that I have discovered in my
explorations in Soho is the Treviglio in Church Street, a little
restaurant that might have been lifted bodily from a canal-side in
Venice or a small street in Florence. It is whole-heartedly Italian, and
puts to the forefront of its window a list of the specialities of Italian
cookery on which it prides itself. It is a favoured haunt of the Italian
journalists in London, and that, I think, can be taken as a certificate
that its cookery is not only thoroughly Italian but is also good Italian.
Signori Pozzi and Valdoni are its proprietors.
Pinoli's is a restaurant in Lower Wardour Street that offers almost as
much at its two-shilling table d'hôte dinner as some other
restaurants do at twice or more that price.
A quiet, flourishing restaurant owned by an Italian, Signor Antonio
Audagna, who began life as a waiter at Romano's, is the Comedy
Restaurant, in Panton Street, Haymarket. It is a comfortable
restaurant, with cream walls and oval mirrors and pink-shaded
lamps, and its back rooms are on a higher level than those of its
Panton Street front. Its customers are very faithful to it, and, as its
proprietor once told me, "when the fathers die the sons take their
places as customers." There was some time ago a proposal to
extend it so as to give it a front to the Haymarket, but that plan
came to naught, and the Comedy goes on just as before in its old
premises. This is a menu of the Comedy table d'hôte dinner, and its
proprietor apparently took a hint from Philippe of the Cavour for the
menu bears the legend, "No beer served with this dinner":
Hors d'œuvre Variés.
Queue de Bœuf Printanière
Crème Chasseur.
Sole à la Bourguignonne.
Noisette de Pré-Salé Volnay.
Spaghetti al Sugo.
Poulet en Casserole.
Salade.
Glacé Comedy.
Dessert.
Another quiet restaurant with a faithful clientele is Signor Pratti's, the
Ship, in Whitehall. His table d'hôte dinners are half-a-crown and
three-and-six, and his eighteenpenny lunch, I fancy, brings to the
restaurant many of the hard-worked gentlemen from Cox's Bank,
just across the way, and from the Admiralty, which is suitably just
behind the Ship. Signor Pratti, if I remember rightly, fines teetotalers
by charging them sixpence extra.
From Hampstead to Surbiton, from Richmond to Epping, the little
Italian restaurants flourish. One gourmet whom I know, with a
delicate taste in Italian wines, makes pilgrimages regularly to
Reggiori's, opposite King's Cross Station, because he gets there a
particular wine which this restaurateur imports; while I take an
almost paternal interest in Canuto's Restaurant in Baker Street. The
rise of that restaurant from a very humble place, that put out two
boards with great sheets of paper on them, giving the dishes ready
and the dinner of the day, to a rather haughty little restaurant with a
very beautiful window and the carte du jour and the menus of table
d'hôte dinners behind the glass in frames of restrained
gorgeousness, typifies the gradual advance in social splendour of the
long street that leads to Regent's Park.

LVIII

THE HYDE PARK HOTEL

Newly engaged couples are rather kittle cattle to entertain at any
meal. There was once a pretty young widow who was about to
marry a charming young man, and I asked the pair to lunch with me
one day at the Savoy and was very particular to secure a table in the
balcony, for I thought that the view over the Gardens and up the
Thames to the House of Lords and Westminster Abbey would
harmonise very well with love's young dream. And it did harmonise
only too well with it, for the pretty widow sat with her face in her
two hands gazing up the river with far-away eyes while the grilled
lamb cutlets grew cold and the bomb praliné grew warm, and the
charming young man, sat opposite to her with hands tightly clasped,
gazing into her face and thinking poetry hard the while.
Conversation there was none on that occasion. I do not believe that
the couple knew in the least whether they were eating sole or cream
cheese, and I still have such remnants of good manners that were
instilled into me in the days of the nursery that I felt that I was
doing an impolite thing to eat heartily while my guests were
neglecting their food. I often subsequently wondered whether in the
days when I fell desperately in love at least once in every six
months, I behaved in public as much like a patient suffering from
softening of the brain as did that nice young man on the day he
lunched with me at the Savoy.
One of my nephews, a young soldier doctor, is going to do a very
sensible thing in marrying an exceedingly nice girl early in his career,
and as he is on leave in London it seemed to me that it would be a
pleasant thing to ask him and the young lady to lunch or dine with
me. Though I did not for a moment believe that the presence of his
intended would cause him to neglect his food, I was not prepared,
after my previous experience, to put the young lady to the
tremendous trial of the view of the Thames from the Savoy balcony,
and I decided that dinner, not lunch, should be the meal.
As I was curious to see whether a little dinner at the Hyde Park
Hotel was as well cooked as the great banquets are in that
flourishing establishment, I asked them to dine there with me one
Sunday evening, and gave Mr Kerpen, the manager of the hotel,
warning of our coming, asking him to suggest to M. Müller, the chef
de cuisine, that I should like one or two specialities of his kitchen
included in a very short menu.
If lunch had been the meal to which I invited the young couple the
Hyde Park Hotel dining-room would have been a spot as inducive to
day dreams as are the balconies at the Savoy and the Cecil, for the
view the Hyde Park Hotel commands over the Park is one of the
most beautiful and most varied in London. A strip of garden lies
between the Hotel and the Ladies' Mile, and beyond that is the
branch of Rotten Row that runs up past the Knightsbridge Barracks.
Beyond that again are green lawns and clumps of rhododendrons
and other flowering shrubs, and the grassy rise up to the banks of
the Serpentine, the glitter of the water of which and the big trees
about it closing in the landscape. The carriages go rumbling past;
there are generally some riders in the Row and there is always
movement on the footpath, and it seems to be one of the duties of
the regiment of Household Cavalry at Knightsbridge to supply as a
figure in the immediate foreground either a young orderly officer in
his blue frock-coat setting out or returning from his rounds on a big
black charger, or a rough-riding corporal in scarlet jacket teaching a
young horse manners. The view up the river to Westminster may
have a dreamy beauty on a sunshiny day, the vista of the long walk
in the Green Park, down which the windows of the Ritz dining-room
look, may have more sylvan beauty, but the outlook of the Hyde
Park Hotel has more colour and more variety than those of the other
big hotels I have mentioned.
The Hyde Park Hotel was one of Jabez Balfour's speculations, and
for a time it was a great pile of flats before it became technically an
hotel. It had a fire, and I fancy that it was after the fire that M. Ritz
was consulted as to its redecoration—for he had a great talent and
indisputable taste in suggesting the ornamentation of large rooms—
and that the Hyde Park Hotel became the exceedingly comfortable,
quiet, luxurious house it is to-day.
In the big hall, with its dark-coloured marbles and handsome
fireplace, I found the young couple waiting for me. They were before
their time and were in holiday spirits, which reassured me, for no
laughing girl is likely to slip suddenly into day dreams. After I had
given my hat and coat to the dark-complexioned servitor in blue and
gold Oriental dress, who looks like a very good-natured Othello, we
waited for a while in the big cream and green drawing-room—a
room so fresh in colour that it does not suggest an environment of
London atmosphere, though it looks out on to Knightsbridge. At the
quarter past eight we went into the big dining-room, and M. Binder,
the maître d'hôtel, showed us to the table in a corner by a window
which had been set for us.
The Hyde Park Hotel dining-room is an exceedingly handsome hall of
mahogany, with panels of gold and deep crimson brocade; its pillars
are of deep red wood with gilt Corinthian capitals; a band plays in a
gallery above the crystal service doors and the colours of the panels
are echoed in carpet and curtains and upholstery. In its comfortable
colouring the Hyde Park Hotel dining-room reminds me very much of
what the Savoy dining-room used to be before its beautiful
mahogany panelling was taken down and the colour of the walls and
ceiling changed to cream.
I soon found that I was not either to be silent or to have the
conversation all to myself, for the young people laughed and chatted
away, and I found myself comparing descriptions of the Curragh as it
was in the seventies, when we used to lie in bed in the huts and
watch the marking at the butts through the cracks in the walls, with
the Curragh of to-day when the last of the Crimean wooden huts are
about to disappear. The reading of the menu, however, was gone
through with due solemnity, and the young lady knew that an
important moment in her life was about to approach, for she was
going to taste caviare for the first time. This was the menu of our
dinner:
Caviar Blinis.
Crème d'Asperges.
Sole à la H.P.H.
Selle d'Agneau de lait poëlée.
Haricots verts aux fines herbes.
Bécassines Chasseur.
Salade.
Pêches Petit Duc.
Comtesse Marie.
Friandises.
Dessert.
The young soldier doctor watched his bride-that-is-to-be eat her first
mouthful of caviare and little angle of the Russian pancake with
interest and some curiosity. If she did not like the delicacy there
would be no caviare for him in the days of their honeymoon, while if
she took a violent fancy to them it might strain the resources of a
very young establishment to provide caviare at two meals a day. She
took her first mouthful, considered, and said that she liked it; but did
not express any overwhelming attachment to it, so I think that so far
as caviare is concerned it will be eaten with appreciation in the
household-that-is-to-be but will not appear every day at table. The
soup was an excellent thick cream; the sole was one of the
specialities of the kitchen put by the chef de cuisine into the menu,
and a most admirable sole it is. It is a mousse of chicken
sandwiched between fillets of sole, and lobster and oysters and, I
fancy, mushrooms also, have their part in this very noble dish. The
tiny saddle of lamb was the plain dish of the dinner; the snipe were
given a baptism of fire before they were brought to table. The
peaches were another dish that is a speciality of the house. With the
Bar-le-Duc currant jelly about the peaches there was mingled some
old Fine Champagne, while the ice and the vanilla cream that went
with it were served separately, as is the modern fashion, which is a
great improvement on sending up the ice in a messy state with the
fruit. The wine we drank was Clicquot 1904. I was charged half-a-
guinea a head for our dinner, which was excellent value for the
money: altogether an admirable dinner, admirably cooked, and I
sent my compliments to the chef.
The other people who had dined had gradually melted away; the
band had left its gallery and we could hear its strains coming from
some distant room. The young people chattered away about
theatres and dances and we might have sat at table until midnight
had not the maître d'hôtel suggested that we might like to look at
the other rooms on the ground floor before going into the smoking
lounge, where the band was playing and where a lady was presently
to sing. We walked through a charming little ante-room with golden
furniture, into the great pink banqueting-room which is used for
dances and balls as well as for great feasts. It is the part of the
Hyde Park Hotel with which I am most familiar, and I told the young
people, who were more anxious to know which way the boards ran
and whether it was a good floor for dancing than they were for
descriptions of banquets, how at one of the dinners of the
Gastronomes in this fine room the table decorations were so
arranged as to be high above the diners' heads and that the air
seemed full of flowers and how M. Müller had invented for that feast
the beau-ideal of a vegetable sorbet—tomates givrées. I had
thoughts of giving them details of a wonderful banquet given at the
hotel by the Society of Merchants, but I am sure they would not
have had patience to listen, so what I abstained from telling them
then, lest they might think me a gluttonous old bore, I here set
down for your consideration, for you can skip it if you will, whereas
the two young people would, I am sure, have been kind enough to
listen and to pretend to appreciate its beauties:
Cantaloup Grande Fine Champagne.
Caviar.
Consommé Florentine.
Crème de Pois frais.
Filets de Truite Saumonée au Coulis d'Ecrevisses.
Volaille de la Bresse Châtelaine.
Selle de Béhague à la Provençale.
Aubergines au Beurre Noisette.
Cailles Royales à l'Ananas.
Pommes Colerette.
Dodines de Canard à la Gelée.
Cœurs de Laitues aux œufs.

Pêches Framboisées.
Friandises.
Dessert.

Vins.
Sandringham Sherry.
 Schloss Volkrads, 1904.
Pommery and Greno, 1900.
Château Brane Cantenac, 1899.
Sandeman's, 1884.
Marett Gautier, 1830.
Liqueurs.
Then we went into the big room, a room of mahogany, and views of
lake and river and sea painted on the panels, which is the room
most used by the people who live in the hotel, where the papers and
great arm-chairs are and where a man can smoke comfortably, and
we listened to the little orchestra and to a young lady who sang us
songs sentimental and songs cheerful until it was time for my
nephew to do escort duty in taking the young lady back to the
northern heights where she lives.

LIX

YE OLDE GAMBRINUS
The one thing in the world that the friends of Germany do not tell us
poor Englishmen is to be obtained better in the Fatherland than on
this side of the Channel is things to eat, though of course Munich
beer has been held up to our brewers for generations as an example
of what they should brew. Perhaps it is for this reason that there are
fewer German restaurants in London in comparison with the size of
the German colony than there are French and Italian restaurants in
comparison with the colonies of those countries.
Yet good, simple German cookery is quite excellent of its kind. A
German housewife knows how to make a goose into many
delectable dishes which an English housewife knows nothing of, and
the German tarts are excellent things amongst dishes of pastry.
There are one or two German restaurants in Soho, and Mr
Appenrodt in his restaurants considers the tastes of his fellow-
countrymen, but the best known London restaurant devoted entirely
to German and Austrian cookery is the Olde Gambrinus, in Regent
Street, and it was an Italian, little Oddenino, who appreciated the
long-felt want of the Germans in London and who gave them a
restaurant in which they can imagine that they are once again back
in their own country, eating German foods and drinking German
drinks.
The Gambrinus has entrances both in Glasshouse Street and in
Regent Street. The Regent Street entrance echoes the decoration of
that of its big brother, the Imperial Restaurant, a few paces farther
along the street, and its marble pillars and revolving door do not
suggest the entirely German surroundings we are in as soon as we
have crossed the threshold. A comparatively narrow room, panelled
half-way up its height with dark wood and with two rows of tables, is
the first portion of the restaurant we see on entering from Regent
Street, and it is here that those good Germans sit who do not want
to eat a meal but wish to drink their "steins" of beer. Above the
panelling on the walls are the heads of many deer and wild beasts
from all parts of the world, and the first impression that this gives to
anyone who does not know the Gambrinus is that it is a Valhalla for
the denizens of some Wonder Zoo. In the midst of these heads of
the wild things of the woods and the plains is that of a fine dog. No
doubt he was the chosen companion of some mighty hunter, and
one hopes that he was not like the rest, a spoil of the chase.
After this first narrow room there comes a wider one with an arched
roof, glazed with bottle-glass, and then the main restaurant itself,
which has the appearance of a baronial hall. Its floor is of wooden
blocks; there are many little tables in it, and chairs with backs of
dark leather, and it is panelled like the entrance, with dark wood.
Any chair not occupied is at our disposal, and we have found seats,
and a waiter has put in front of us the big sheet with the menu of
the day on it and a picture in blue of a crowned gentleman with a
long white beard astride on a beer cask and drinking from a foaming
tankard. We will order our dinner first and then look at our
surroundings.
For every day in the week there are special dishes: four soups, one
of which is generally bouillon mit ei; three meat dishes and a fruit
dish. There is a list of hors d'œuvre, amongst them Berliner rollmops
and Brabant sardellen, Nürnberger ochsenmaul salat and Bismarck
herring. There is a column in print of cold dishes in which various
German sausages are given the place of honour, and then, written in
violet ink, many ready dishes beyond those sacred to the day, and
another list of dishes which can be had to order.
As the most typical German dishes amongst those of the day let us
order goose soup with dumplings, roast veal and peas, and pear
tart, and we cannot do better than wash this down with two large
glasses of light-coloured Munich beer.
The waiter takes our orders, and from a pile of rounds of wadding
put down by us two with some blue printing on them, which shows
that we are going to drink Munich beer, whereas had we elected for
the beer of Pilsen we should have been given rounds of wadding
with red on them.
On all the seats at all the tables are Germans of all types. Dark-
haired Germans from the south, looking almost like Italians, and the
typical fair-haired Teutons of the north with fat necks and hair
cropped to a stubble. Anyone who thinks that the German fraus and
frauleins resemble at all the unkind caricatures the French make of
them should see the pretty ladies who accompany the worthy
Germans who eat their dinners at the Gambrinus. They are as fresh
and charming, as well dressed and as daintily mannered as the
ladies who go to any restaurant of any other nationality.
The windows that give on to Glasshouse Street are of the glass that
looks as though the bottoms of wine bottles had been used, and in
the centre of each window is an escutcheon with armorial bearings.
At one side of the room is a gallery of dark wood, and on the front
of this is also a wealth of heraldry. The heads of animals of all kinds,
which seemed a little strange in the brasserie by the entrance, seem
quite in place in the big hall which has all the appearance of the
dining-room of some old baronial castle converted into a German
inn. On the side opposite to the gallery is a long counter under two
arches of dark wood. On this counter are many beer mugs, and fruit
in baskets, and on a series of shelves all the delicatessen which are
recorded on the spiese karte. On the wall at the back of the two
arches hang the beer mugs which belong to the customers, rows
upon rows of them forming a background of coloured earthenware
and glass. By the side of this long counter is another, where a pretty
girl sits and hands out to the waiters the liqueur bottles and keeps
the necessary accounts.
If the trophies of the chase in the brasserie are various they are
infinitely more various in the big hall, for the Herr Baron must have
hunted on all the continents and did not disdain to add monsters of
the deep to his trophies, for a spiky fish, looking like a marine
hedgehog, dangles from the ceiling, and below it is one of those
curious things which sailors call mermaids and the right name of
which is, I believe, manati. He was a collector of curios also, this
imaginary baron, for a curious lamp in the shape of an eight-pointed
star hangs above the gallery, there is a carved owl immediately
below it and various other wood carvings in different parts of the
restaurant, and on the broad shelf above the panelling are a
wonderful variety of earthenware and china and pewter mugs and
dishes and jugs and candlesticks in quantities that would set up half-
a-dozen antique shops.
The heads of animals on the wall would supply material for an
exhaustive lesson in zoology. There is the skull of an elephant, the
head of a rhino, a bear grins sardonically on one side, and opposite
to him a zebra appears to have thrust his head and neck through the
wall. There are several boars' heads, an eagle with his wings spread
dangles from the balcony, and a black cock appears to be rising from
a forest of liqueur bottles. There are horns or heads of half-a-
hundred varieties of deer, from the wapiti and elk to those tiny little
fellows with horns a couple of inches long who run about like rabbits
in the German forests. There are antlers of red deer and fallow deer,
and heads of wildebeeste and hartebeeste, and black buck and
buffalo, and of many more that are beyond my knowledge of horned
beasts.
There are in the room glass screens to keep off all draughts; there
are bent-wood stands on which to hang coats and hats, and a
staircase with a luxurious carpet on it and a brass rail leads down
into the grill-room of the Imperial Restaurant next door.
But the waiter, who had already put down by our places two long
sloping glasses of the clear cold beer, now brings us the plates of
smoking goose soup, and excellent soup it is, with the suet
dumplings, as light as possible, in it, and pieces of the breast of the
goose. Why we English neglect the goose as a soup-maker I do not
know, as indeed I do not know why we neglect the goose at all and
consign him to the kitchen as a meal for the servants while the
turkey is being eaten upstairs. The veal, which, I should imagine, is
imported from Germany, is excellent, and the huge chop of it that is
given to each of us must, I think, be an extra attention on the part
of the management, for M. Oddenino has just come in and has taken
a seat at a table in a recess, where he dines frugally every night so
as to be within call of his restaurant next door, and he has called the
attention of the little manager to our presence. So perhaps we are
being given what in Club life is known as the "Committee-man's
chop."
Our third venture is just as satisfactory as the two previous ones, for
the great angle of open pear tart is in every way excellent. The bill
presented at the close of our meal is as moderate as the food was
good. We have each in our meal consumed three shillings and three
pence worth of well-cooked food and cold beer.
So again I ask, Why should the German cuisine in London be the
Cinderella of the daughters of Gastronomy?
 LX

MY SINS OF OMISSION
No one can be more aware than I am of the things I have left
undone in writing of the restaurants of London, of the many
interesting dining-places of which I have made no mention, of the
eating-houses with historical associations that I have overlooked.
I have done no more than touch the hem of the garment of the City.
As I write I recall that the Ship and Turtle, the Palmerston and other
notable restaurants I have passed by without even a word, and that
I have given only a line to Pim's and Simpson's, and the George and
Vulture, each of which is worthy of a chapter.
The Liverpool Street Hotel, which I have singled out, is not by any
means the only great railway hotel in London where the catering is
excellent. I used at one time to dine every Derby night with the late
Mr George Dobell at the St Pancras Hotel, and a better cooked
dinner no one could have given me. The Euston Hotel had, and I
have no doubt has, an admirable cellar of wines.
There is a chapter waiting to be written concerning the changes that
have taken place in railway refreshment-room catering, with, as
examples, the dining-rooms at the two Victoria stations and the
table d'hôte dinner that is provided for playgoers at Waterloo.
The luncheons provided for golfers in the club-houses of the golf
courses near London was another subject to which I intended to
devote a chapter, and yet another to the excellent luncheons that
the racing clubs, following Sandown's example, provide for their
members.
There are roadside and riverside inns that deserve mention besides
those of which I have written.
Many of the large hotels that I have not mentioned deserve
attention, but there is a certain similarity in the table d'hôte meals at
all big hotels nowadays and the difference between the rank and file
of them lies more in their situation and decoration than in their
cuisine.
My excuse for paying a vague compliment to the big hotels in bulk
will not hold good with respect to the many small hotels that I have
not mentioned where the cookery is excellent. They at least have,
each one, its distinct individuality. I can only plead that I have been
frightened by their number. Almond's in Clifford Street, Brown's in
Albemarle Street, where M. Peròs is the chef, are two which occur to
me as I write in which I have dined admirably, and I have no doubt
that "Sunny Jim" will make the restaurant of the St James's Palace
Hotel a favourite dining-place.
I feel that I have slighted Oxford Street and Holborn in having
merely nodded as I passed by to some of the many restaurants,
some of them important ones, that are to be found on the road from
Prince Albert's Statue to the Marble Arch. My hope of making
amends to them for this neglect lies in a hope that my book may run
into more than one edition.
In the streets that branch off from Shaftesbury Avenue there are
several restaurants for which I should have found room in this book.
The Coventry is one, and the by-ways of Soho teem with little
eating-houses waiting to be discovered and to become prosperous
and to possess globes of electric light and rows of Noah's ark trees
in green tubs. I am not such a hardy explorer as I used to be, but I
have gone through some terrible times in experimenting on some of
the little restaurants in Soho—the ones that had better remain
undiscovered.
Some of my correspondents have asked me why I only write of
places that I can conscientiously praise, and why I do not describe
my failures. My answer to this is that it is not fair to condemn any
restaurant, however humble it may be, on one trial, and that, when I
have been given an indifferent meal anywhere, I never go back
again to see whether I shall be as badly treated on a second
occasion. I prefer to consign to oblivion the stories I could tell of bad
eggs and rank butter and cold potatoes, stringy meat and skeleton
fowls.
It is so much better for one's digestion to think of pleasant things
than to brood over horrors.
Adieu, or rather, I trust, au revoir.

P. S.—That changes have taken place in the personnel of the

restaurants even in the space of time that it takes to pass the proofs
of this book shows how difficult it is to keep such a publication right
up to date. Most of the changes I have been able to note in their
proper position, but the sale of Rule's by Mr and Mrs O'Brien to one
of their old servants and the appointment of M. Mambrino to the
managership of the Berkeley Hotel I must record here.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOURMET'S
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