“So am I,” I rejoined. And we went down to Childs’ and as the clock struck midnight were revelling in savory dishes of corned beef hash and poached eggs, (for which, I might add, we were joshed and jibed at many a time.)
A few days after, a deputation of fellow workers in the C.P.R. vineyard dropped into my office, headed by Charlie Benjamin, now passenger traffic manager of the Company’s ocean service, who mentioned that there was a guy who kicked like a steer at banquet foods as usually framed up by chefs, and as this guy was to have a birthday on the near approaching 23rd August, he demanded on behalf of the large and apparently respectable deputation that the aforesaid guy should himself prepare a bill-of-fare for the feed that was to be tendered him. I was the guy. And here is a copy of the menu:
Sliced Tomatoes
Celery Olives
Pea Soup, Thin, Like Mother Used to Make
A Little Cold Liver and Bacon
Irish Turkey and Cabbage
New Boiled Murphies with the Sweaters on
Buttered White Beans a la Orchestra
Dear Apple Pie Poor Pumpkin Pie