The American Bar Of London Differs From The Ordinary English Bar Of London In Two Respects, Namely - There Is An American Flag Draped Over The Mirror, And It Is A Place Where They Sell All The English Drinks And Are Just Out Of All The American Ones.

If you ask for a Bronx the barmaid tells you they do not carry seafood in stock and advises you to apply at the fishmongers' - second turning to the right, sir, and then over the way, sir - just before you come to the bottom of the road, sir.

If you ask for a Mamie Taylor she gets it confused in her mind with a Sally Lunn and sends out for yeastcake and a cookbook; and while you are waiting she will give you a genuine Yankee drink, such as a brandy and soda - or she will suggest that you smoke something and take a look at the evening paper.

If you do smoke something, beware - oh, beware! - of the native English cigar. When rolled between the fingers it gives off a dry, rustling sound similar to a shuck mattress. For smoking purposes it is also open to the same criticisms that a shuck mattress is. The flames smolder in the walls and then burst through in unexpected places, and the smoke sucks up the airshaft and mushrooms on your top floor; then the deadly back draft comes and the fatal firedamp, and when the firemen arrive you are a ruined tenement. Except the German, the French, the Belgian, the Austrian and the Italian cigar, the English cigar is the worst cigar I ever saw.

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