Dinner, which was one of the plainest I ever made in the United States, was served in the usual manner; only that the gentleman of the house piqued himself on having everything cooked in the true English fashion. I believe he had a beef-steak brought upon the table for the sole purpose of showing the difference between the English and American ways of dressing it. “This is an English steak,” said he; “at least you do not see it besmeared with rancid butter, and N.B. cooked with Liverpool coal.” The roast beef was recommended in the same manner, as being “roasted in the true English style;” and the same was said of the parboiled vegetables, and at last of the fire-proof pudding.
“I hope,” said one of the gentlemen, who was an American at the head of a large manufacturing establishment, “none of our friends is troubled with dyspepsia.”
“I like the English kitchen better than any other,” replied our entertainer, “whatever preference my friends may give to the French or Italian.”
“At any rate it is preferable to the American,” observed another Englishman.
“And if not that, we at least know how to eat,” remarked another.
“That,” said our host, “no one will deny. The custom of eating against time exists only in America.”
“Why,” observed the manufacturer peevishly, “I have seen many an Englishman, sitting down at our public tables, play as good a knife and fork, and as quickly too, as one of our ‘natives.’”
“That was done in self-defence,” cried the Englishman, “if it was done at all.”
“If the custom of dining at tables d’hôte existed in England,” rejoined the manufacturer, “your people would soon learn speed and ingenuity in eating.”
“I hope, sir, such a custom will never be introduced.”