I ordered a plain old dry martini adding that I wanted it very dry and with a twist of lemon instead of an olive to show that we Americans too can enter the gourmet ring.

C. D. ordered himself a Cinzano and we went ahead and chose our meal. I decided to start with Ogorki Demi-sel and go on to the Filet de Plie Orly while C. D. plumped for the Crème Waldeze followed by a Poulet Braconniers.

The waiter returned with our drinks and began placing them in front of us wrong way round. I’d noticed a kind of mad, satisfied gleam come into C. D.’s eye as he sat silently, watching the mistake to its completion, but nothing to prepare me for the explosion by which he let the waiter—and everyone else in the room—in on his view of the matter. “May I recommend that a little ordinary commonsense brought to your job might help you in overcoming your either real or psychological deafness, young man?” he bellowed. “Who at this table looks young enough to risk a midday martini? Who looks wise enough to choose an aperitif?” It was unexpected to say the least.