Friends — what you hold in your hands is, by the plainest reading, a directory of a private social club in the heart of our city. It lists our membership, our staff, our house rules, and the polite arrangements by which we keep our affairs in good order. It is, in the strictest sense, no more remarkable than the rosters of a dozen luncheon societies across the boulevard.
And yet you and I both know that good order is, in this peculiar year of our calendar, an act of considerable craftsmanship. We have built here a room in which the lamps are warm, the chairs are deep, the music is the music we love, and the company is the company we choose. That this room exists at all is the achievement of every person whose name appears on the pages to come.
Carry this volume close. Refer to it often. And when you sit down to your usual table, look around — every face there has chosen, as you have, to make a home of this place. It is no small thing.
— H. C. Marston, House Manager
A printer by trade and a tenor by enthusiasm, Cassius keeps a folded sheaf of unpublished light verse in his breast pocket and reads aloud, on request, after the second course. He has not missed a Saturday in two and a half years. His standing order is a tall glass of barley water with a twist of lemon, which is precisely what it sounds like to anyone who asks.
Mrs. Larkin is a children's librarian at the Northside branch and the unofficial historian of every regular at this club. She speaks softly and remembers everything. Her arrival, by long tradition, marks the true beginning of the evening: lamps dim at the door. She greets each table in turn — where strangers become our kin, she nods to each newcomer, asks after children and hands and recent troubles. She is most herself at the late hour, safe in shared silence, when the conversation has settled into low murmurs and Mr. Bellini has begun the slow nocturnes.
A pediatrician, a chess player of frightening patience, and the unofficial steward of the house cat (a tortoiseshell named Persephone, who is herself a member in all but ledger). Dr. Holroyd's standing recommendation to new arrivals is: "Order what Marcus suggests. He has been right every single time and it is becoming tiresome."
Bakers of the well-known rye loaves carried by every delicatessen on Maxwell Street. They arrive together, hand in hand, after the day's flour is washed off and the apron is hung. Mrs. Ostrowski insists on greeting every member by name. Mr. Ostrowski insists on standing for a round when his loaves have sold particularly well that week — which is more often than he lets on.
Trumpet player. Schoolteacher by day, sit-in by night. Roselle's standing arrangement is that she may play three numbers per visit, no more, no less, and may borrow the upright piano's bench between songs to chat. She has been, on three occasions, the reason an entire room stayed an hour past the usual close.
Our newest regular. A widower of four years, a streetcar conductor of twenty-six. Sully comes in quietly, sits in the same place, drinks his usual, and stays for the company. He told H. C. on his second night that this was the first room he had been in since 1927 where he did not feel alone. He has been embraced, accordingly, with great seriousness by everyone here.
A member in good standing, having need to consult the cellar inventory pages following, will please offer the appropriate member entry phrase below. The cellar book is kept in four parts; each phrase opens its proper section.
If the cellar pages remain unfamiliar, that is no failure of yours — the proper phrases are passed quietly, between members at the table, in the cloakroom, on the walk home. Ask anyone whose name you have read above. They will be glad you asked.
— printed for the membership — pressed at the Whelan Shop, Northside —
Two papers, paired and folded, found in H. C. Marston's desk: