There were others as famous in their way - the
Zinkand, where, at one time, every one went after the theatre, and
Tate's, which has lately bitten into that trade; the Palace Grill, much
like the grills of Eastern hotels, except for the price; Delmonico's,
which ran the Poodle Dog neck and neck to its own line; and many others,
humbler but great at the price.
Listen! O ye starved amidst plenty, to the tale of the Hotel de France.
This restaurant stood on California street, just east of Old St. Mary's
Church. One could throw a biscuit from its back windows into Chinatown.
It occupied a big ramshackle house, which had been a mansion of the gold
days. Louis, the proprietor, was a Frenchman of the Bas Pyrenees; and
his accent was as thick as his peasant soups. The patrons were Frenchmen
of the poorer class, or young and poor clerks and journalists who had
discovered the delights of his hostelry. The place exhuded a genial
gaiety, of which Louis, throwing out familiar jokes to right and left as
he mixed salads and carried dishes, was the head and front.
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