The omelet she turned out for us was a thing
that was very firm and durable, containing, I think, leather
findings, with a sprinkling of chopped henbane on the top. The
coffee was as feeble a counterfeit as chicory usually is when it
is masquerading as coffee, and the vin ordinaire had less of the
vin to it and more of the ordinaire than any we sampled elsewhere.
Right here let me say this for the much-vaunted vin ordinaire of
Europe: In the end it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an
adder - not like the ordinary Egyptian adder, but like a patent
adder in the office of a loan shark, which is the worst stinger
of the whole adder family. If consumed with any degree of freedom
it puts a downy coat on your tongue next morning that causes you
to think you inadvertently swallowed the pillow in your sleep.
Good domestic wine costs as much in Europe as good domestic wine
costs in America - possibly more than as much.
The souffle potatoes of old Marie were not bad to look on, but I
did not test them otherwise. Even in my own country I do not care
to partake of souffle potatoes unless I know personally the person
who blew them up. So at the conclusion of the repast we nibbled
tentatively at the dessert, which was a pancake with jelly, done
in the image of a medicated bandage but not so tasty as one. And
then I paid the check, which was of august proportions, and we
came sadly away, realizing that another happy dream of youth had
been shattered to bits. Only the tablecloth had been as advertised.
It was coarse, but white like snow - like snow three days old in
Pittsburgh.
Yet I was given to understand that was a typical rural French inn
and fully up to the standards of such places; but if the manager
of a roadhouse within half a day's ride of New York or Boston or
Philadelphia served such food to his patrons, at such prices, the
sheriff would have him inside of two months; and everybody would
be glad of it too - except the sheriff. Also, no humane man in
this country would ask a self-respecting cow to camp overnight in
such outbuildings as abutted on the kitchen of this particular
inn.
I am not denying that we have in America some pretty bad country
hotels, where good food is most barbarously mistreated and good
beds are rare to find, but we admit our shortcomings in this regard
and we deplore them - we do not shellac them over with a glamour of
bogus romance, with intent to deceive the foreign visitor to our
shores.
