Francis Lynde

The Price Francis Lynde

In the days when New Orleans still claimed distinction as the only American city withouttrolleys, sky-scrapers, or fast trains-was it yesterday? or the day before?-there was adingy, cobwebbed café in an arcade off Camp Street which was well-beloved ofnewspaperdom; particularly of that wing of the force whose activities begin late and end inthe small hours."Chaudière's," it was called, though I know not if that were the name of the round-faced, round-bodied little Marseillais who took toll at the desk. But all men knew the fame of itsgumbo and its stuffed crabs, and that its claret was neither very bad nor very dear. And ifthe walls were dingy and the odors from the grille pungent and penetrating at times, therewent with the white-sanded floor, and the marble-topped tables for two, an Old-World airof recreative comfort which is rarer now, even in New Orleans, than it was yesterday or theday before.