The Palace Hotel was big, impressive, and old, with solid marble columns, and crystal hanging from the ceiling. The rooms were big, the beds tall, and from the window you could see almost more of San Francisco than you could consume. The room was full of flowers, candy boxes tied in red ribbons, a basket filled with stuffed olives, smoked hams, bors-d'oeure in glass, bottled turtle soup, and a whole pièce montée of lobster en gelée.
Mama said, “They've put us in the kitchen!”
Gramp read a card on the baskets. “Hell, no, it's from Mamie Beckman. 'Welcome to our city.'”
“And eat hearty,” said Mama, taking the pins out of her riding hat. “She must think we're starving Balis or something.”
I clawed up a bunch of hothouse grapes, and Mama took them away from me. “Baby boy mustn't fill his stomach before lunch.”
Gramp slipped the aged bellboy a dollar and said, “Put this truck in storage and clear the way to the dining room; we're roaring down to lunch.”
The bellboy looked at Gramp, then at the dollar, and stood aside and held the door open for us. The headwaiter bowed as we tame into the dining room. A band was playing, and a sad little man was sawing Viennese music on a string bass.
“Mrs. Beekman has asked me to give you her table.”
“Damn white of her,” said Gramp, “but we'll use our own.”
The headwaiter looked up over his head, where heaven must have been, and said, “This is the only free table. You'll like it.”
We sat down, Gramp's big toe hurting, and Mima said, “May we see the menu?”
The headwaiter motioned to some of his staff. “Mrs. Beekman has ordered for you. She felt that after your trip you would be tired, and the food here is of the best.” Gramp was going to protest, but Mama, acting very grand, looked At him, and then at the waiter. “We don't know any Mrs. Beckman, and if you don't mind, we have minds and will use them. That is, if you have a chef here who can cook.”
The headwaiter bowed and stood a defeated man. Mama doesn't ever miss when she brings up the big guns of her scorn. Gramp nodded and sat silent, and Mama ordered the way Gramp had taught her. Hot shrimp victimise en casserole with wine sauce and dill, and bedded in rice; pea soup with sherry; veal cooked in sour cream, bedded in Nockerl and paprika; and to start it all hors-d'oeuvre with celery root remoulade and French sardines. “And some Nuits-St..Georges and Napa Gamay Rosé. Black coffee.
We had a dessert of baba au rhum flambé, and then Gramp and I went for a walk around, while Mama went up to rest. Being small, she couldn't take on a load of food and carry it around right after a meal. At the door the man in the Swiss Naval uniform said that Mrs. Beckman's Lincoln was waiting, and I fear Gramp told him what to do with it. (It didn't seem it could be done, and 1 would have liked to watch.) Gramp hurried me off to show me the remains of the Barbary Coast.
But, of course, our luck couldn't hold. We were dressing for dinner when the phone rang and someone said something very fast that we couldn't hear very well, and three minutes later there was a knock at the door. There stood a large pretty woman, built along the lines of the original Ark, and a very pretty little girl of twelve, with an upturned nose and cruel eyes. The Ark came in fast, talking fast too, and moved among us with skill and speed, kissing, handshaking, and pressing us close to a bosom heavily scented with chemical violets.
“Ah, the Longstrasses at last, at last! Mamie is the name. Mamie Beckman, but you just call me Mamie, and call me often. Jake said you'd be in Frisco, but that husband of mine, try and get him away from the ranch. Well, welcome to Frisco. Welcome to the real city in the real West. Don't bother dressing, I'm giving a party on the top of Russian Hill, and this is my daughter Esme. Esme, kiss the little boy and stop pulling on your dress. General, it's good to see you. Well, let's roll, time's fleein' and the band is playing Dixie.”
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