It is beyond question that the French have a genius for hospitality.  It must be rooted in their beautiful, national tact, that gracious impulse combining chivalry to women, friendliness to men and courtesy to all which is so characteristic of “the world’s sweetheart” France.  I have never seen a French restaurant where the most casual visitor was not made personally and charmingly welcome, and I have never seen such typically French restaurants as the Lafayette and the Brevoort.  And the Villagers feel it too.  From the shabbiest socialist to the most flagrantly painted little artist’s model, they drift in thankfully to that atmosphere of gaiety and sympathy and thoughtful kindliness which is, after all, just—­the air of France.

Next let us take a restaurant of quite another type, not far from the Brevoort—­all the Village eating places are close together—­walk across the square, a block further, and you are there.

It is not many years since Bohemia ate chiefly in the side streets, at restaurants such as Enrico’s, Baroni’s—­there are a dozen such places.  They still exist, but the Village is dropping away from them.  They are very good and very cheap, and the tourist—­that is, the uptowner—­thinks he is seeing Bohemia when he eats in them, but not many of them remain at all characteristic.  Bertolotti’s is something of an exception.  It is a restaurant of the old style, a survival of the days when all Bohemian restaurants were Italian.  La Signora says they have been there, just there on Third Street, for twenty years.  If you are a newcomer you will probably eat in the upstairs room, in cool and rather remote grandeur, and the pretty daughter with the wondrous black eyes will serve you the more elaborate of the most extraordinarily named dishes on the menu.  But if, by long experience, you know what is pleasant and comfortable you will take a place in the basement cafe.  At the clean, bare table, in the shadow of the big, bright, many-bottled bar, you will eat your Risotta alla Milanese, your coteletti di Vitelle, your asparagi—­it’s probably the only place in the city where they serve asparagus with grated cheese—­finally your zambaione,—­a heavenly sort of hot “flip,” very foamy and seductive and strongly flavoured with Marsarla wine.

If you stand well with the house you may have the honour to be escorted by the Signora herself—­handsome, dignified, genial, with a veritable coronal of splendid grey hair—­to watch the eternal bowling in the alley back of the restaurant.  I have watched them fascinated for long periods and I have never learned what it is they are trying to do with those big “bowling balls.”  They have no ninepins, so they are not trying to make a ten-strike.  Apparently, it is a game however, for now and then a shout of triumph proclaims that someone has won.  He orders the drinks and they go at it again.

“But, what is it?” I asked the Signora.