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Updated: June 29, 2025
I remember one of these old gentlemen who refused to go to bed in the Hotel Tortoni at Havre, though the call was for six o'clock next morning with quite a chance of death before the week was out. Some younger officers with him coaxed him to his room just before midnight, but he came down again, condemning their impudence, and went out into the great silent square, shouting for a taxi.
If the women of France, she says, remain true to their vocation, they will eventually combat with success the ever-increasing partiality of their compatriots for the positive, and will prevent each salon from becoming, like the boulevard of the Café Tortoni, a petite Bourse.
"If a man doesn't love his work, he's not worth his salt. But that's not saying that I love the sea." With such discourse did we beguile the short journey to the Hotel, Restaurant and Café Tortoni in the Place Gambetta. The terrace was thronged with the good Havre folks, husbands and wives and families enjoying the Sunday afternoon apéritif.
He tipped a wink in his partner's direction. "What's your fancy, Stiffy." "Oh, I leave the mean-you to you, Mahooley." "Well, I guess you can give us some patty de foy grass, and squab on toast, and angel cake." "Sure," said Sam. "How about a biscuit Tortoni for dessert?" "Don't you give me no lip!" cried Mahooley.
'No, you may not, said Hugo. 'But you may shake hands with me. And he respectfully ventured to explain to Simon how, in the case of a man like himself, with three thousand five hundred tongues ever ready to wag about him, absolute secrecy had been the only policy. 'Telephone down to the refreshment department for Tortoni to come up to me instantly. I must order a dinner for two.
The haven was itself so obstructed with ice that on the very night of my arrival, with the help of my cook and some tins of jam, I was able to serve up Neapolitan ices to my staff, like Tortoni himself. There was very near being a serious breach of discipline on board the frigate during our passage.
Regent Street, Bond Street, with their blaze of gas-light bijouterie, and still more the Italian Boulevard of Paris, rose in strong contrast on the memory; the light, which outshines that of day the gay, graceful, laughing throng the elegant saloons of Tortoni, with all their varieties of cooling nectar were all remembered.
I recollect witnessing one of the most magnificent acts of reparation which a lover should perform toward the husband he is minotaurizing. One warm evening in the summer of 1817, I saw entering one of the rooms of Tortoni one of the two hundred young men whom we confidently style our friends; he was in the full bloom of his modesty.
Would we exchange sensations with the stallite, strolling languidly to his seat? The extravagant dinner once a week! We banquet a la Francais, in Soho, for one-and-six, including wine. Does Tortoni ever give his customers a repast they enjoy more? I trow not. My first lodging was an attic in a square the other side of Blackfriars Bridge.
These ices had been ordered by Madame du Val-Noble of Tortoni, whose shop is at the corner of the Rue Taitbout and the Boulevard. The cook called Contenson out of the room to pay the bill. Contenson, who thought this demand on the part of the shop-boy rather strange, went downstairs and startled him by saying: "Then you have not come from Tortoni's?" and then went straight upstairs again.
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