asked one.
Mr. Masterson removed his hat and inclined politely from the waist. “At your service, ma’am,” said he with a virile smile. “Just call me ‘Bat.’”
“Mr. Earp?” asked the other. “The real, one-and-only, honest-to-golly Wyatt Earp?”
Mr. Earp glared at Mr. Masterson.
The white-jacketed arm of a waiter parts green velvet curtains and places before Wyatt a three-pound lobster. It seems to stare at him from the platter, and he returns the stare.
“What in hell is this?”
“That is a lobster,” says Bat.
“What do you do with it? Wrassle it?”
“You eat it,” says Bat. “Or take it home for a doorstop.” The girls go into gales of laughter while the waiter’s arm is thrust thrice more through the curtains, bearing three more lobsters.
“We weren’t born yesterday,” says Bat to the girls. “Sure, you go by the Ginger Sisters on the stage—but what’re your real names?”
“Do we really have to tell?” they appeal.
“Well, you know ours. Turn-about’s fair play.” The arm parts the curtains and passes in, one by one, four boats of melted butter.
“Mine’s Helen Troy.”
“Mine’s Juliet Bard.”
“Enchanting,” says Bat to Helen.
“Juliet,” Wyatt repeats. The girls are seated in the center of the booth, Juliet beside him, Helen beside Bat. “How did you know I’m Wyatt Earp?”
“Eddie Foy told us—he had to. We don’t go out with any old body.”
“Old?”
“I mean nobodies.”
The arm appears with four lobster crackers on a silver salver. Bat distributes.
“What’re these?” asks Wyatt.
“Crackers. Get a good grip and use ‘em like pliers. Start with the claws.”
Wyatt watches attentively as the others commence to disassemble and devour the crustaceans. The arm removes a bucket of ice containing two empty Mumm’s bottles. It reappears, bearing another bucket of ice containing two full bottles of Mumm’s. Bat takes one and is about to pop the cork when Wyatt kicks him under the table and nods toward the curtains. The two men lean into the curtains and extrude their heads from the booth in order to hold a tête-à-tête .
“That’s four lobsters and four bottles of champagne already and a private booth,” says Wyatt. “What’s all this going to cost?”
“A bagatelle,” says Bat. “Anyway, it’s on me, pal. I run a bill at Rector’s.”
Rector’s is to the Gay White Way what Mrs. Astor’s palace is to Fifth Avenue society. A long, low, yellow-brick building on Times Square between 43rd and 44th, its amazements include a giant illuminated griffin suspended from its facade and the first revolving door in the city—the latter contraption having caused Wyatt, who had never seen one, some difficulty with entrance. Inside, the establishment is elaborately decorated in green and gold, walled with mirrors from floor to ceiling, and lit by crystal chandeliers. On the second floor are seventy-five tables at which the hoi polloi are dumped. For the elite, one hundred tables and two private booths are reserved on the ground floor. And it is to this level that the bon ton of New York night life come after the theater in jewels and silks and soup-and-fish to be greeted by George Rector, to sip and to sup, to see and be seen, to crowd the place by midnight every night. Through these portals have regularly paraded such personages as Diamond Jim Brady, who bankrolled the restaurant in its beginning, and Lillian Russell, and Florenz Ziegfeld of “Follies” fame, and Anna Held, who took tub baths in milk, and the Floradora Girls, and Harry K. Thaw, who shot Stanford White over Evelyn Nesbit, and Charles Frohman and Richard Harding Davis, and 0. Henry, whom few recognized, and young Billie Burke, and Victor Herbert, the composer who penned the immortal “I Want What I Want When I Want It,” and, neither last nor least, the legs of Miss Frankie Bailey, which were unveiled nightly at Weber & Fields’s Music Hall, legs adjudged by the
Mr. Masterson removed his hat and inclined politely from the waist. “At your service, ma’am,” said he with a virile smile. “Just call me ‘Bat.’”
“Mr. Earp?” asked the other. “The real, one-and-only, honest-to-golly Wyatt Earp?”
Mr. Earp glared at Mr. Masterson.
The white-jacketed arm of a waiter parts green velvet curtains and places before Wyatt a three-pound lobster. It seems to stare at him from the platter, and he returns the stare.
“What in hell is this?”
“That is a lobster,” says Bat.
“What do you do with it? Wrassle it?”
“You eat it,” says Bat. “Or take it home for a doorstop.” The girls go into gales of laughter while the waiter’s arm is thrust thrice more through the curtains, bearing three more lobsters.
“We weren’t born yesterday,” says Bat to the girls. “Sure, you go by the Ginger Sisters on the stage—but what’re your real names?”
“Do we really have to tell?” they appeal.
“Well, you know ours. Turn-about’s fair play.” The arm parts the curtains and passes in, one by one, four boats of melted butter.
“Mine’s Helen Troy.”
“Mine’s Juliet Bard.”
“Enchanting,” says Bat to Helen.
“Juliet,” Wyatt repeats. The girls are seated in the center of the booth, Juliet beside him, Helen beside Bat. “How did you know I’m Wyatt Earp?”
“Eddie Foy told us—he had to. We don’t go out with any old body.”
“Old?”
“I mean nobodies.”
The arm appears with four lobster crackers on a silver salver. Bat distributes.
“What’re these?” asks Wyatt.
“Crackers. Get a good grip and use ‘em like pliers. Start with the claws.”
Wyatt watches attentively as the others commence to disassemble and devour the crustaceans. The arm removes a bucket of ice containing two empty Mumm’s bottles. It reappears, bearing another bucket of ice containing two full bottles of Mumm’s. Bat takes one and is about to pop the cork when Wyatt kicks him under the table and nods toward the curtains. The two men lean into the curtains and extrude their heads from the booth in order to hold a tête-à-tête .
“That’s four lobsters and four bottles of champagne already and a private booth,” says Wyatt. “What’s all this going to cost?”
“A bagatelle,” says Bat. “Anyway, it’s on me, pal. I run a bill at Rector’s.”
Rector’s is to the Gay White Way what Mrs. Astor’s palace is to Fifth Avenue society. A long, low, yellow-brick building on Times Square between 43rd and 44th, its amazements include a giant illuminated griffin suspended from its facade and the first revolving door in the city—the latter contraption having caused Wyatt, who had never seen one, some difficulty with entrance. Inside, the establishment is elaborately decorated in green and gold, walled with mirrors from floor to ceiling, and lit by crystal chandeliers. On the second floor are seventy-five tables at which the hoi polloi are dumped. For the elite, one hundred tables and two private booths are reserved on the ground floor. And it is to this level that the bon ton of New York night life come after the theater in jewels and silks and soup-and-fish to be greeted by George Rector, to sip and to sup, to see and be seen, to crowd the place by midnight every night. Through these portals have regularly paraded such personages as Diamond Jim Brady, who bankrolled the restaurant in its beginning, and Lillian Russell, and Florenz Ziegfeld of “Follies” fame, and Anna Held, who took tub baths in milk, and the Floradora Girls, and Harry K. Thaw, who shot Stanford White over Evelyn Nesbit, and Charles Frohman and Richard Harding Davis, and 0. Henry, whom few recognized, and young Billie Burke, and Victor Herbert, the composer who penned the immortal “I Want What I Want When I Want It,” and, neither last nor least, the legs of Miss Frankie Bailey, which were unveiled nightly at Weber & Fields’s Music Hall, legs adjudged by the
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