that case,” said Paddington, looking most relieved, “I think I’ll have a marmalade sandwich.”
Looking around, Paddington decided a place as important as the Porchester must serve very good marmalade sandwiches, and he was anxious to test one.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” exclaimed the waiter. “Did you say a marmalade sandwich?”
“Yes, please,” said Paddington. “With custard.”
“For dinner?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Paddington firmly. “I’m very fond of marmalade and you said there was nothing you don’t have.”
The man swallowed hard. In all his years at the Porchester he’d never been asked for a marmalade sandwich before, particularly by a bear. He beckoned to another waiter standing nearby. “A marmalade sandwich for the young bear gentleman,” he said. “With custard.”
“A marmalade sandwich for the young bear gentleman – with custard,” repeated the second waiter. He disappeared through a door leading to the kitchens as if in a dream and the Browns heard the order repeated several more times before it closed. They looked around uneasily while they gave another waiter their own orders.
There seemed to be some sort of commotion going on in the kitchen. Several times they heard raised voices and once the door opened and a man in a chef’s hat appeared round the corner and stared in their direction.
“Perhaps, sir,” said yet another waiter, as he wheeled a huge trolley laden with dishes towards the table, “you would care for some hors d’æuvre while you wait?”
“That’s a sort of salad,” Mr Brown explained to Paddington.
Paddington licked his whiskers. “It looks a very good bargain,” he said, staring at all the dishes. “I think perhaps I will.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brown, as Paddington began helping himself. “You’re not supposed to eat it from the trolley, Paddington.”
Paddington looked most disappointed as he watched the waiter serve the hors d’æuvre. It wasn’t really quite such good value as he’d thought. But by the time the man had finished piling his plate with vegetables and pickles, salad, and a pile of interesting-looking little silver onions he began to change his mind again. Perhaps, he decided, he couldn’t have managed the whole trolleyful after all.
While Mr Brown gave the rest of the orders – soup for the others followed by fish and a special omelette for Mr Gruber – Paddington sat back and prepared to enjoy himself.
“Would you like anything to drink, Paddington?” asked Mr Brown.
“No, thank you, Mr Brown,” said Paddington. “I have a bowl of water.”
“I don’t think that’s drinking water, Mr Brown,” said Mr Gruber tactfully. “That’s to dip your paws in when they get sticky. That’s what’s known as a paw bowl.”
“A paw bowl?” exclaimed Paddington. “But I had a bath this afternoon.”
“Never mind,” said Mr Brown hastily. “I’ll send for the lemonade waiter – then you can have an orange squash or something.”
Paddington was getting more and more confused. It was all most complicated and he’d never seen so many waiters before. He decided to concentrate on eating for a bit.
“Most enjoyable,” said Mr Gruber a few minutes later when he had finished his soup. “I shall look forward to my omelette now.” He looked across the table at Paddington. “Are you enjoying your hors d’æuvre, Mr Brown?”
“It’s very nice, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington, staring down at his plate with a puzzled expression on his face. “But I think I’ve lost one of my onions.”
“You’ve what?” asked Mr Brown. It was difficult to hear what Paddington was saying for the noise the orchestra was making. It had been playing quite sweetly up until a moment ago but suddenly it had started making a dreadful row. It was something to do with one of the saxophone players in the front row. He kept shaking his instrument and then trying to blow it, and all the while the conductor was glaring at him.
“My onion!” exclaimed Paddington. “I had six just now and when I put my fork on one of them it suddenly disappeared. Now I’ve only got five.”
Mrs Brown began to look more and more embarrassed as Paddington got down off his seat and began peering under the tables. “I do hope he finds it soon,” she said. Everyone in the restaurant seemed to be looking in their direction and if they weren’t actually pointing she knew they were talking about them.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Jonathan suddenly. He pointed towards the orchestra. “There’s Paddington’s onion!”
The Browns turned and looked at the orchestra. The saxophone player seemed to be having an argument with the conductor.
“How can I be expected to play properly,” he said bitterly, “when I’ve got an onion in my instrument? And I’ve a good idea where it came from too!”
The conductor followed his gaze towards the Browns, who hurriedly looked the other way.
“For heaven’s sake don’t tell Paddington,” said Mrs Brown. “He’ll only want it back.”
“Never mind,” said Mr Gruber, as the door leading to the kitchen opened. “I think my omelette’s just coming.”
The Browns watched as a waiter entered bearing a silver dish which he placed on a small spirit stove near their table. Mr Gruber had ordered an omelette flambée, which meant it was set on fire just before it was served. “I don’t know when I had one of those last,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I must say it looks very nice,” said Mr Brown, twirling his moustache thoughtfully. “I rather wish I’d ordered one myself now.
“Come along, Paddington,” he called, as the waiter set light to the pan. “Come and see Mr Gruber’s omelette. It’s on fire.”
“What!” cried Paddington, poking his head out from beneath the table. “Mr Gruber’s omelette’s on fire?”
He stared in astonishment at the waiter as he bore the silver tray with its flaming omelette towards the table.
“It’s all right, Mr Gruber,” he called, waving his paws in the air. “I’m coming!”
Before the Browns could stop him, Paddington had grabbed his paw bowl and had thrown the contents over the tray. There was a loud hissing noise and before the astonished gaze of the waiter Mr Gruber’s omelette slowly collapsed into a soggy mess in the bottom of the dish.
Several people near the Browns applauded. “What an unusual idea,” said one of them. “Having the cabaret act sit at one of the tables just like anyone else.”
One old gentleman in particular who was sitting by himself at the next table laughed no end. He had been watching Paddington intently for some time and now he began slapping
