I Did Not Go To Spain; They Tell Me, Though, The Spanish
Cigar Has The High Qualifications Of Badness.
Spanish cigars are
not really cigars at all, I hear; they fall into the classification
of defective flues.
Likewise beware of the alleged American cocktail occasionally
dispensed, with an air of pride and accomplished triumph, by the
British barmaid of an American bar. If for purposes of experiment
and research you feel that you must take one, order with it, instead
of the customary olive or cherry, a nice boiled vegetable marrow.
The advantage to be derived from this is that the vegetable marrow
takes away the taste of anything else and does not have any taste
of its own.
In the eating line the Englishman depends on the staples. He
sticks to the old standbys. What was good enough for his fathers
is good enough for him - in some cases almost too good. Monotony
of victuals does not distress him. He likes his food to be humdrum;
the humdrummer the better.
Speaking with regard to the whole country, I am sure we have better
beef uniformly in America than in England; but there is at least
one restaurant on the Strand where the roast beef is just a little
bit superior to any other roast beef on earth. English mutton is
incomparable, too, and English breakfast bacon is a joy forever.
But it never seems to occur to an Englishman to vary his diet. I
submit samples of the daily menu:
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