Michael Bond - Paddington Complete Novels

“That settles it,” said Mr Brown. “I’ll ring the Porchester right away and reserve a table for tonight.”

“Oh, Henry,” exclaimed Mrs Brown. “Not the Porchester. That’s such an expensive place.”

Mr Brown waved his hand in the air. “Nothing but the best is good enough for Paddington,” he said generously. “We’ll invite Mr Gruber as well and make a real party of it.

“By the way,” he continued, “where is Paddington? I haven’t seen him for ages.”

“He was peering through the letterbox just now,” said Mrs Bird. “I think he was looking for the postman.”

Paddington liked birthdays. He didn’t get many letters – only his catalogues and an occasional postcard from his Aunt Lucy in Peru – but today the mantelpiece in the dining-room was already filled to overflowing with cards and he was looking forward to some more arriving. There had been a card from each of the Browns, one from Mr Gruber, and quite a surprising number from various people who lived in the neighbourhood. There was even an old one from Mr Curry, which Mrs Bird recognised as one Paddington had sent him the year before, but she had wisely decided not to point this out.

Then there were all the parcels. Paddington was very keen on parcels – especially when they were well wrapped up with plenty of paper and string. In fact he had done extremely well for himself, and the news that they were all going out that evening as well came as a great surprise.

“Mind you,” said Mrs Brown, “you’ll have to have a bath first.”

“A bath!” exclaimed Paddington. “On my birthday?”

Paddington looked most upset at the thought of having a bath on his birthday.

“The Porchester is a very famous restaurant,” explained Mrs Brown. “Only the best people go there.”

And, despite his protests, he was sent upstairs that afternoon with a bath cube and some soap and strict instructions not to come down again until he was clean.

Excitement in the Browns’ house mounted during the afternoon and by the time Mr Gruber arrived, looking self-conscious in an evening-dress suit which he hadn’t worn for many years, it had reached fever pitch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the Porchester before, Mr Brown,” he whispered to Paddington in the hall. “So that makes two of us. It’ll be a nice change from cocoa and buns.”

Paddington became more and more excited on the journey to the restaurant. He always enjoyed seeing the lights of London and even though it was summer quite a few of them had already come on by the time they got there.

He followed Mr Brown up the steps of the restaurant and in through some large doors, giving the man who held them open a friendly wave of his paw.

In the distance there was the sound of music and as they all gathered inside the entrance in order to leave their coats at the cloakroom, Paddington looked around with interest at the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and at the dozens of waiters gliding to and fro.

Here comes the head waiter,” said Mr Brown, as a tall, superior-looking man approached. “We’ve booked a table near the orchestra,” he called. “In the name of Brown.”

The head waiter 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, as he 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.”