Paddington Novels 1-3

stared at Paddington. “Is the young… er… bear gentleman with you?” he asked, looking down his nose.
    “With us?” said Mr Brown. “We’re with him. It’s his party.”
    “Oh,” said the man disapprovingly. “Then I’m afraid you can’t come in.”
    “What!” exclaimed Paddington amid a chorus of dismay. “But I went without a second helping at lunch specially.”
    “I’m afraid the young gentleman isn’t wearing evening dress,” explained the man.“Everyone at the Porchester has to wear evening dress.”
    Paddington could hardly believe his ears and he gave the man a hard stare.
    “Bears don’t have evening dress,” said Judy, squeezing his paw. “They have evening fur – and Paddington’s has been washed specially.”
    The head waiter looked at Paddington doubtfully. Paddington had a very persistent stare when he liked, and some of the special ones his Aunt Lucy had taught him were very powerful indeed. He coughed. “I daresay,” he said, “we might make an exception – just this once.”
    He turned and led the way through the crowded restaurant, past tables covered with snowy white cloths and gleaming silver, towards a big round table near the orchestra. Paddington followed on close behind and by the time they reached it the man’s neck had gone a funny shade of red.
    When they were all seated the head waiter gave them each a huge card on which was printed a list of all the dishes. Paddington had to hold his with both paws and he stared at it in amazement.
    “Well, Paddington,” said Mr Brown. “What would you like to start with? Soup? Hors d’æuvre? ”
    Paddington looked at his menu in disgust. He didn’t think much of it at all. “I don’t know what I would like, Mr Brown,” he said. “My programme’s full of mistakes and I can’t read it.”
    “ Mistakes! ” The head waiter raised one eyebrow to its full height and looked at Paddington severely. “There is never a mistake on a Porchester menu.”
    “Those aren’t mistakes, Paddington,” whispered Judy, as she looked over his shoulder. “It’s French.”
    “French!” exclaimed Paddington. “Fancy printing a menu in French!”
    Mr Brown hastily scanned his own card. “Er… have you anything suitable for a young bear’s treat?” he asked.
    “A young bear’s treat?” repeated the head waiter haughtily. “We pride ourselves that there is nothing one cannot obtain at the Porchester.”
    “In 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, ashe 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