Читать книгу Cakes & Ale - Spencer Edward - Страница 21

is frequently the first announcement to catch the eye of the incoming guest; and although you cannot help admiring the marble pillars, the oak carving, the gilding, the mirrors, and the electric light, an uncomfortable feeling comes over you at meal times, to the effect that the cost of the decorations, or much of it, is taken out of the food.

“Waiter,” you ask, as soon as your eyes and ears get accustomed to the incessant bustle of the coffee-room, and your nostrils to the savour of last night’s soup, “what can I have for breakfast?”

“What would you like, sir?”

“I should like a grilled sole, to begin with.”

“Very sorry, sir, soles is hoff—get you a nice chop or steak.”

“Can’t manage either so early in the day. Got any whitings?”

“Afraid we’re out of whitings, sir, but I’ll see.”

Eventually, after suggesting sundry delicacies, all of which are either “hoff,” or unknown to the waiter, you settle down to the consumption of two fried and shrivelled shop eggs, on an island of Chicago ham, floating in an Ægean Sea of grease and hot water; whilst a half quartern loaf, a cruet-stand the size of a cathedral, a rackful of toast of the “Zebra” brand, and about two gallons of (alleged) coffee, are dumped down in succession in front of you.

There are, of course, some hostelries where they “do” you better than this, but my experience of hotel breakfasts at this end of the nineteenth century has not been encouraging, either to appetite or temper; and I do vow and protest that the above picture is not too highly coloured.

The toothsome, necessary bloater is not often to be met with on the hotel’s bill-of-fare; but, if soft roed—use no other—it will repay perusal. Toast it in a Dutch oven in front of a clear fire, and just before done split it up the back, and put a piece of butter on it. The roe should be well plumped, and of the consistency of Devonshire cream. A grilled sole for breakfast is preferable to a fried one, principally because it is by no means impossible that the fried sole be second-hand, or as the French call it réchauffé. And why, unless directions to the contrary be given, is the modest whiting invariably placed, tail in mouth, on the frying pan? A grilled whiting—assassinate your cook if she (or he) scorches it—is one of the noblest works of the kitchen, and its exterior should be of a golden brown colour.

Do not forget to order sausages for breakfast if you are staying at Newmarket; there is less bread in them than in the Metropolitan brand. And when in Lincoln attempt a