I met a few American Colonels who had recently been promoted misters. They were so proud of their new title that they insisted on being addressed thus.
American hospitality deserves the reputation which it enjoys in Europe. If it errs, it is perhaps on the side of prodigality. But how criticise hosts so amiable and so cordial?
American hospitality is princely. You are not often invited, even in houses where the daily menu is of the most appetising, to go and share the family dinner. You are not invited to dine—a fête is got up for you. If this cannot be managed, you are seldom invited at all.
You generally find you have been asked to a banquet: oysters, soup, hors d'œuvre, fish, relevés, entrées, sorbets, roasts, stew of terrapin, game (raw canvas-back duck, when in season), salads—five or six vegetables, pastry, sweets, cheese, ices and dessert, the whole washed down with the choicest wines, Château-Yquem, Amontillado, iced champagne, Château-Lafitte, and such precious beverages.
In good American houses the cooking is excellent; you will not find better in London and Paris.
The most recherché of American dishes is terrapin stew: when in season, it figures at every feast. The flavour is so pronounced that one is bound to think it either delicious or detestable.
Am I obliged to tell you which I think it?
An American asked me one day whether I liked terrapin.
I replied: "It is nothing but polite to bow to the customs of a country one visits. Terrapin is eaten in the United States, and I eat it."