Well, when I was there last, I dined with a village doctor, the
greatest epicure I think I ever see in all my born days. He thought
and talked of nothing else from morning till night but eatin'.
"Oh, Mr Slick," said he, rubbin' his hands, "this is the tallest
country in the world to live in. What a variety of food there is
here,--fish, flesh, and fowl,--wild, tame, and mongeral,--fruits,
vegetables, and spongy plants!"
"What's that?" sais I. I always do that when a fellow uses strange
words. "We call a man who drops in accidently on purpose to dinner a
sponging fellow, which means if you give him the liquid he will soak
it up dry."
"Spongy plants," sais he, "means mushrooms and the like."
"Ah!" said I, "mushrooms are nateral to a new soil like this. Upstarts
we call them; they arise at night, and by next mornin' their house is
up and its white roof on."
"Very good," said he, but not lookin' pleased at havin' his oratory
cut short that way. "Oh, Mr Slick!" said he, "there is a poor man here
who richly deserves a pension both from your government and mine. He
has done more to advance the culinary art than either Ude or Soyer."
"Who on earth now were they?" said I. I knew well enough who they
were, for when I was to England they used to brag greatly of Soyer at
the Reform Club. For fear folks would call their association house
after their politics, "the cheap and dirty" they built a very splash
affair, and to set an example to the state in their own establishment
of economy and reform in the public departments, hired Soyer, the best
cook of the age, at a salary that would have pensioned half-a-dozen of
the poor worn-out clerks in Downing Street.
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