We Went Down To Dinner, And Only The Fact Of Not Having Tasted Food For
Many Hours Could Have Made Me Touch It In Such A Room.
We were in a long
apartment, with one table down the middle, with plates laid for one
hundred people.
Every seat was occupied, these seats being benches of
somewhat uncouth workmanship. The floor had recently been washed, and
emitted a damp fetid odour. At one side was a large fireplace, where, in
spite of the heat of the day, sundry manipulations were going on, coming
under the general name of cookery. At the end of the room was a long
leaden trough or sink, where three greasy scullery-boys without shoes,
were perpetually engaged in washing plates, which they wiped upon their
aprons. The plates, however, were not washed, only superficially rinsed.
There were four brigand-looking waiters with prodigious beards and
moustachios.
There was no great variety at table. There were eight boiled legs of
mutton, nearly raw; six antiquated fowls, whose legs were of the
consistence of guitar-strings; baked pork with "onion fixings," the meat
swimming in grease; and for vegetables, yams, corn-cobs, and squash. A cup
of stewed tea, sweetened with molasses, stood by each plate, and no
fermented liquor of any description was consumed by the company. There
were no carving-knives, so each person hacked the joints with his own,
and some of those present carved them dexterously with bowie-knives taken
out of their belts.
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