In almost all hotels throughout the south, the waiters are coloured men. The service is but poor. The negroes are slow: it is the guests who do the "waiting."
At Delmonico's especially, and in the principal hotels of New York, Boston, Washington, Philadelphia, and Chicago, you can dine admirably. In the smaller towns you feed.
But let us take our seats at the table d'hôte of the best hotel in any second-rate town that you please in Ohio, Pennsylvania, or some other State of the Union.
No printed menu. A young woman, with an elaborate coiffure of curls, rolls, and bangs, but no cap, approaches, darts a look of contempt at you, and, turning her back upon you, gabbles off in one breath:
"Croutaupoturbotshrimpsauceroastbeefturkeycranberrysaucepotatoestomatoesspinachappletartmincepiecheesevanillacream."
Do not attempt to stop her; she is wound up, and when she is started is bound to go to the end. You must not hope that she will repeat the menu a second time, either. If you did not hear, so much the worse for you. Unfortunately, the consequences are grave: it is not one dish that you miss, it is the whole dinner. You are obliged to order all your repast at once; and the whole is brought you, from soup to cheese, at one time.
I was so ill-inspired one day as to order some soup to begin with. The waitress refused downright to bring me anything more.
"That is all you ordered," she said to me; "you do not suppose I can make twenty journeys to the kitchen for you."
I rose and sought the hotel-keeper. I made the humblest apologies; pleaded that I was a foreigner who had only been in America a fortnight, and was not yet accustomed to the habits of the Americans. I promised solemnly never to transgress again in this way. Mine host went to the young person who was at the head of the battalion of harpies in the dining-room, and interceded for me with her. I had the happiness of being forgiven, and was allowed to appease my hunger.