Not desiring to be unkind
or unduly critical I shall merely state that as a cook old Marie
was what we who have been in France and speak the language fluently
would call la limite! 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.
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