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.
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