Although there are still many vegetarian restaurants in our large towns, the prejudice against animal food is, happily, dying out; and if ridicule could kill, we should not hear much more of the “cranks” who with delightful inconsistency, would spurn a collop of beef, and gorge themselves on milk, in every shape and form. If milk, butter, and cheese be not animal food I should like to know what is? And it is as reasonable to ask a man to sustain life on dried peas and mushrooms as to feed a tiger on cabbages.
Once, and only once, has the writer attempted a
Vegetarian Banquet.
It was savoury enough; and possessed the additional merit of being cheap. Decidedly “filling at the price” was that meal. We—I had a messmate—commenced with (alleged) Scotch broth—which consisted principally of dried peas, pearl barley, and oatmeal—and a large slice of really excellent brown bread was served, to each, with this broth. Thereupon followed a savoury stew of onions and tomatoes, relieved by a “savoury pie,” apparently made from potatoes, leeks, bread crumbs, butter, and “postponed” mushrooms. We had “gone straight” up to now, but both shied a bit at the maccaroni and grated cheese. We had two bottles of ginger beer apiece, with this dinner, which cost less than three shillings for the two, after the dapper little waitress had been feed. On leaving, we both agreed to visit that cleanly and well-ordered little house again, if only from motives of economy; but within half an hour that programme was changed.
Like the old lady at the tea-drinking, I commenced to “swell wisibly”; and so did my companion.
“Mon alive!” he gasped. “I feel just for all the wor-rld like a captive balloon, or a puffy-dunter—that’s a puffing whale, ye ken. I’ll veesit yon onion-hoose nae mair i’ ma life!”
And I think it cost us something like half a sovereign in old brandy to neutralise the effects of that vegetarian banquet.