It takes a
nation that has practiced deep breathing for centuries.
Chapter IX
The Deadly Poulet Routine
Under the head of European disillusionments I would rate, along
with the vin ordinaire of the French vineyard and inkworks, the
barmaid of Britain. From what you have heard on this subject you
confidently expect the British barmaid to be buxom, blond, blooming,
billowy, buoyant - but especially blond. On the contrary she is
generally brunette, frequently middle-aged, in appearance often
fair-to-middling homely, and in manner nearly always abounding
with a stiffness and hauteur that would do credit to a belted earl,
if the belting had just taken place and the earl was still groggy
from the effects of it. Also, she has the notion of personal
adornment that is common in more than one social stratum of women
in England. If she has a large, firm, solid mound of false hair
overhanging her brow like an impending landslide, and at least
three jingly bracelets on each wrist, she considers herself well
dressed, no matter what else she may or may not be wearing.
Often this lady is found presiding over an American bar, which is
an institution now commonly met with in all parts of London. 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. 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:
LUNCHEON DINNER
Roast Beef Boiled Mutton
Boiled Mutton Roast Beef
Potatoes, Boiled Cabbage, Boiled
Cabbage, Boiled Potatoes, Boiled
Jam Tart Custard
Custard Jam Tart
Cheese Coffee
Coffee Cheese
TEA!
I know now why an Englishman dresses for dinner - it enables him
to distinguish dinner from lunch.
His regular desserts are worthy of a line. The jam tart is a
death-mask that went wrong and in coiisequence became morose and
heavy of spirit, and the custard is a soft-boiled egg which started
out in life to be a soft-boiled egg and at the last moment - when
it was too late - changed its mind and tried to be something else.
In the City, where lunching places abound, the steamer works
overtime and the stewpan never rests. There is one place, well
advertised to American visitors, where they make a specialty of
their beefsteak-and-kidney pudding. This is a gummy concoction
containing steak, kidney, mushroom, oyster, lark - and sometimes
W and Y. Doctor Johnson is said to have been very fond of it;
this, if true, accounts for the doctor's disposition. A helping
of it weighs two pounds before you eat it and ten pounds afterward.
The kidney is its predominating influence. The favorite flower
of the English is not the primrose.
