Here is a bon mot that was manufactured at 'Tonio's:
"A dinner at 'Tonio's," said a Bohemian, "always amounts to twice the
price that is asked for it."
Let us assume that an accommodating voice inquires:
"How so?"
"The dinner costs you 40 cents; you give 10 cents to the waiter, and
it makes you feel like 30 cents."
Most of the diners were confirmed table d'hoters--gastronomic
adventurers, forever seeking the El Dorado of a good claret, and
consistently coming to grief in California.
Mr. Brunelli escorted Katy to a little table embowered with shrubbery
in tubs, and asked her to excuse him for a while.
Katy sat, enchanted by a scene so brilliant to her. The grand
ladies, in splendid dresses and plumes and sparkling rings; the fine
gentlemen who laughed so loudly, the cries of "Garsong!" and "We,
monseer," and "Hello, Mame!" that distinguish Bohemia; the lively
chatter, the cigarette smoke, the interchange of bright smiles and
eye-glances--all this display and magnificence overpowered the
daughter of Mrs. Dempsey and held her motionless.
Mr. Brunelli stepped into the yard and seemed to spread his smile
and bow over the entire company. And everywhere there was a great
clapping of hands and a few cries of "Bravo!" and "'Tonio! 'Tonio!"
whatever those words might mean. Ladies waved their napkins at him,
gentlemen almost twisted their necks off, trying to catch his nod.
When the ovation was concluded Mr. Brunelli, with a final bow,
stepped nimbly into the kitchen and flung off his coat and waistcoat.
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