 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
MOON ON THE LAKE.
Congress Hall, July 26.
Yesterday I went out to Moon's little storey-and-a-half modern
hotel on the lake with General Babcock and Colonel B—
After looking at the tame trout, rolling a game of ten-pins,
and tasting some of that delicious champagne, impregnated with
the flavor of orange peel, made by President F. S. Davis, of Memphis,
the dapper little proprietor, Mr. C. B. Moon, took us through
the dining rooms, larders, and kitchens of the establishment.
“Twenty-one years
ago,” said Mr. Moon,
“I came up from
Hartford, Washington
County, with $26,
and a pair of boots
over my shoulders.
I fell out with hard
work on the farm, and
built a little shanty
here on the lake.
Saratoga was then a
village of about five
hundred inhabitants.”
“What was land
worth then?”
“I could buy the
best land around the village for $30 per acre, and right there,”
said he, pointing to the bank of the lake a few rods off, “I have
just sold an acre for $1.000 to Frank Leslie, who is to build an
Italian villa. I own land for a half mile now from the lake back
to the swamp.”
“How has the race track affected property?”
“It has damaged it. Dozens of carriages, with spotted dogs
under them, used to drive up to my place, while they now go to
where there is such a smell of horses. Then the war made great
changes.”
RICH SAM DUNCAN.
“Do you see this room?” said Mr. Moon, opening a door into
a rear room with a veranda in front of it. “This was the old
Duncan dining-room. I named it after Sam Duncan, who had
that big plantation at Skipwith Landind, on the Mississippi.
Thousands of dollars Sam has spent here. Blooded fellows,
those Duncans! But they ain't what they used to be. Why,
last summer a shabbily-dressed man came into the bar-room and
took a drink alone. I thought I knew him, and said I:
“`Hellow, Sam, is that you?'
“`I didn't think you would know me,' said Sam.
“`I should think I'd be a darned fool to forget a man who
has spent as many thousand dollars with me as you have,' said
I.”
POOR SAM DUNCAN.
“`Don't mention it,' said Sam,—`don't!' and then my old
friend Duncan turned away and looked sadly out of the window.
I slipped up to him, and said I, `Sam, won't you dine to-day in
Duncan Hall?'
“`No—no, Moon' stammered Sam, as he brushed a tear from
his eye, `I'm too poor now—I've lost everything. I'm stopping
at a quiet boarding-house in Ballston, but I thought I must come
and see the place where we had such good times before the war.'
“Lord!” said Moon, “how mean he made me feel!—and then
I took Sam Duncan's hand and pulled him into the old Duncan
dining-room, and I ordered the best dinner the boys could get
up. We had woodcock, trout, and champagne and Santa Cruz
rum out of the
OLD “FRANK WADDELL” BOTTLE.
“What is the `Frank Waddell bottle?”' I
asked.
“Here,” said Moon, stepping to the bar,
“this is the old bottle—113 years old,” and
he held up an old chunk of a green bottle, on
which was the inscription—
“Frank Waddell was a gentleman dyed in
the wool,” continued Moon, “and his bottle has
been filled more than ten thousand times with
the best rum in America. Once Sir Charles
go to New York and ride straddle of the bung-hole all the way
to Saratoga, and I rode in myself, astride like a jockey, from the
depot to the lake.”
Here a quiet-looking old gentleman came in and asked for the
Frank Waddell bottle.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“That's Stuart, one of the big Stuarts, sugar refiners, of
New York. Stuart knew Sam. Duncan and Frank Waddell,
for he's been here for twenty years—he's a poor man—only worth
$17,000,000!” said Moon, with a twinkle of the eye. “He likes
to come out here now, at six o'clock in the morning, for his pig
pork and brook trout.” Stuart now took a “smile” with young
Erastus Corning, of Albany, who kept a 2:46 span of bays waiting
at the door.
“Who has given the biggest dinner here in
twenty years?” I asked.
“Let's see,” said Moon, scratching his
head; “well, Watts Sherman, of Duncan,
Sherman & Co., gave the biggest dinner a few
years ago. Thirty-six in the party—and the
dinner cost $3,000. Madame Rush was one
of the party. My wife was in her prime then,
and, Lord! you ought to have seen that dinner—canvas-backs,
hot-house grapes, Johannisberger,
Roman punch, —!” and Moon
held up both hands, like a great V, while his
eyes hung out in a state of wondering bewilderment.
Now we enter the larder,
where were layers of brook
trout, reed-birds, woodcock,
partridges and black bass.
“This partridge looks like
an old fellow—he's five years
old,” said Colonel Bridgeland,
holding up an antique partridge
which one of Moon's
hunters was dressing; “what
will you do with him?”
“Oh, some of those shoddy
city fellows will come along
to-day, and they can't tell
this old hen from a chicken.
I know too much to give this old bird to one of your thoroughbred
POTATOES (THE SECRET).
“How do you cook the potatoes?” I asked, as we looked
through the kitchen.
“We slice them as thin as paper, put them in ice-water over
night, wipe them dry with a towel, then fry them quick.”
“What else do you do?”
Mr. Moon gave a profound look, and then said he, mysteriously,
“Well, there is one thing that I fool them all on. Do you see
this big dark oven?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I put them in there, after drying them with the towel,
where it is perfectly dark and hot, and dry them to a crisp before
they are fried; that makes them light-colored. That's a secret,
now—mum's the word!”
| Saratoga in 1901 | |