I am not myself much of a restaurant snob, yet
it is a sorrow to me that I am never recognised by head-waiters. I have moments of envy for those of my friends whose appearance in any restaurant from San Francisco to Omsk lashes the staff into an orgy of welcoming adulation. Yet there is (or was) one head waiter in the world who used to call me by my name. I refer to Olivier of the Paris Ritz. Some years ago I was walking in Paris when I met Captain Edward Molyneux. I asked him to luncheon. He said " Where shall we go?" I said " We shall go to the Ritz, because Olivier is such a friend of mine." We went to the Ritz. We entered the restaurant. It was as I expected. Olivier hurried towards us with his ducal smile. It was Edward Molyneux whom he greeted first, but I did not mind that; in fact I relished the delicious anagnorisis which would follow. He then turned to me. A fleeting cloud of perplexity crossed his sunny features, to be followed imme- diately by a burst of delighted recognition. "Mais voyons donc," he said, "c'est Monsieur Bonstetten!"
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