Читать книгу Cakes & Ale - Spencer Edward - Страница 30

(literally “little breakfast”)—which is served either at the Mess-house, the public Bath, or in one’s own bungalow, beneath the verandah—poached eggs on toast are de rigueur, whilst I have met such additions as unda ishcamble (scrambled eggs), potato cake, and (naughty, naughty!) anchovy toast. Tea or coffee are always drunk with this meal. “Always,” have I written? Alas! In my mind’s eye I can see the poor Indian vainly trying to stop the too-free flow of the Belati pani (literally “Europe water”) by thrusting a dusky thumb into the neck of the just-opened bottle, and in my mind’s ear can I catch the blasphemous observation of the subaltern as he remarks to his slave that he does not require, in his morning’s “livener,” the additional flavour of Mahommedan flesh, and the “hubble-bubble” pipe, the tobacco in which may have been stirred by the same thumb that morning.

“Coffee shop” is a favourite function, during the march of a regiment in India, at least it used to be in the olden time, before troops were conveyed by railway. Dhoolies (roughly made palanquins) laden with meat and drink were sent on half way, overnight; and grateful indeed was the cup of tea, or coffee, or the “peg” which was poured forth for the weary warrior who had been “tramping it” or in the saddle since 2 A.M. or some such unearthly hour, in order that the column might reach the new camping-ground before the sun was high in the heavens. It was at “coffee-shop” that “chaff” reigned supreme, and speculations as to what the shooting would be like at the next place were indulged in. And when that shooting was likely to take the form of long men, armed with long guns, and long knives, the viands, which consisted for the most part of toast, biscuits, poached eggs, and unda bakum (eggs and bacon), were devoured with appetites all the keener for the prospect in view. It is in troublous times, be it further observed, that the Hindustan khit is seen at his best. On the field of battle itself I have known coffee and boiled eggs—or even a grilled fowl—produced by the fearless and devoted nokhur, from, apparently, nowhere at all.

At the Indian breakfast proper, all sorts of viands are consumed; from the curried prawns and Europe provisions (which arrive in an hermetically sealed condition per s.s. Nomattawot), to the rooster who heralds your arrival at the dak bungalow, with much crowing, and who within half an hour of your advent has been successively chased into a corner, beheaded, plucked, and served up for your refection in a scorched state. I have breakfasted off such assorted food as curried locusts, boiled leg of mutton, fried snipe, Europe sausages, Iron ishtoo (Irish stew), vilolif (veal olives, and more correctly a dinner dish), kidney toast—chopped sheep’s kidneys, highly seasoned with pepper, lime-juice, and Worcester sauce, very appetising—parrot pie, eggs and bacon, omelette (which might also have been used to patch ammunition boots with), sardines, fried fish (mind the bones of the Asiatic fish), bifishtake (beef steak), goat chops, curries of all sorts, hashed venison, and roast peafowl, ditto quail, ditto pretty nearly everything that flies, cold buffalo hump, grilled sheep’s tail (a bit bilious), hermetically-sealed herring, turtle fins, Guava jelly, preserved mango, home-made cake, and many other things which have escaped memory. I am coming to the “curry” part of the entertainment later on in the volume, but may remark that it is preferable when eaten in the middle of the day. My own experience was that few people touched curry when served in its normal place at dinner—as a course of itself—just before the sweets.

“Breakfast with my tutor!” What happy memories of boyhood do not the words conjure up, of the usually stern, unbending preceptor pouring out the coffee, and helping the sausages and mashed potatoes—we always had what is now known as “saus and mash” at my tutor’s—and the fatherly air with which he would remind the juvenile glutton, who had seated himself just opposite the apricot jam, and was improving the occasion, that eleven o’clock school would be in full swing in half an hour, and that the brain (and, by process of reasoning, the stomach) could not be in too good working-order for the fervid young student of Herodotus. The ordinary breakfast of the “lower boy” at Eton used to be of a very uncertain pattern. Indeed, what with “fagging,” the preparation of his lord-and-master’s breakfast, the preparation of “pupil-room” work, and agile and acute scouts ever on the alert to pilfer his roll and pat of butter, that boy was lucky if he got any breakfast at all. If he possessed capital, or credit, he might certainly stave off starvation at “Brown’s,” with buttered buns and pickled salmon; or at “Webber’s,” or “the Wall,” with three-cornered jam tarts, or a “strawberry mess”; but Smith minor, and Jones minimus as often as not, went breakfastless to second school.

At the University, breakfast with “the Head” or any other “Don” was a rather solemn function. The table well and plentifully laid, and the host hospitality itself, but occasionally, nay, frequently, occupied with other thoughts. A departed friend used to tell a story of a breakfast of this description. He was shaken warmly by the hand by his host, who afterwards lapsed into silence. My friend, to “force the running,” ventured on the observation—

“It’s a remarkably fine morning, sir, is it not?”

No reply came. In fact, the great man’s thoughts were so preoccupied with Greek roots, and other defunct horrors, that he spoke not a word during breakfast. But when, an hour or so afterwards, the time came for his guest to take leave, the “Head” shook him by the hand warmly once more, and remarked abstractedly—

“D’you know, Mr. Johnson, I don’t think that was a particularly original remark of yours?”