which caused him to bemoan the fact that
no inventive Yankee had yet patented a folding
chafing-dish which could be carried in the vest
pocket or worn as a charm on the watch-chain.
Mr. Harvey is responsible for the christening
of paprika as the “ Goddess of Good Digestion ”
(He also confessed to me in an unguarded mo-
ment that he wrote that immortal poem, “ Girl in
hammock — reading book,”) and he bows at her
shrine as a fervent devotee. “ You can eat a
Welsh rabbit, dish and all, without indigestion,
if plenty of paprika is well stirred in while the
cheese is melting,” he said to me once, and I
really believe he would have tried it if it hadn’t
been a silver-plated affair that I was rather fond of.
Once upon a time he was in London, and had taken
the underground railway at King’s Cross for Wal-
tham Green. He became interested in a magazine
article (I have often wondered what magazine that
32
The Bachelor and the Chafing-dish.
was) and neglected to change cars at Earlscourt. As
a consequence he suddenly found the chimney-pots
of London town disappearing in the distance, while
before him spread out the green fields and suburban
villas beyond Hammersmith and Ravensconrt. He
appealed to the guard, who told him to hurry across
the tracks and take the returning train; but the way
was circuitous and elevated, and the gate was closed
upon a sadder and wiser as well as a hungrier man,
for dinner-time was come. A good dinner had been
missed, and the schedule showed no train for an
hour. A generous station manager, however, ex-
tended him the freedom of the platform on which
to walk off his vexation. Then came a ray of hope.
In the dim light of an October evening he saw,
standing by the station wall, a row of slot machines
arrayed along like wailing ghosts on the ragged
headlands of the eternal future.
There were sixty long minutes of waiting to kill,
“ and so,” murmured the poet, “ I will draw on my
imagination (my friend has a plethora of this) and
sumptuously dine ! ”
The margin of the magazine supplied an illus-
trated menu-card, and upon it was inscribed, “ Po-
tage,” “Hors D’oeuvres,” “Poisson,” “Releve,”
“ Entree,” “ Roti,” and “ Dessert.” Then began the
dinner, each course being attended by a musical
A Dinner in a Slot. - 33.
prelude, which was produced by the rattling of a
copper-in-the-slot machine. The nearest he could
get to potage was fig-paste, while, for poisson, even
my poet’s now feverish imagination failed, and with
the usual prelude he weighed himself on automati-
cal scales. A “ tuppence ” gave him entrees of
sugared peanuts and lemon-drops, tutti-frutti and
pepsin-gum. Then came the substantial roti in the
form of slabs of sweet chocolate.
Page 10
Presented as published in 1895. Historical recipes may not meet modern food-safety standards. Cook from the modern interpretation, not the original instructions.
AI-modernized reading of the original text
which caused him to bemoan the fact that no inventive Yankee had yet patented a folding chafing-dish which could be carried in the vest pocket or worn as a charm on the watch-chain. Mr. Harvey is responsible for the christening of paprika as the “ Goddess of Good Digestion ” (He also confessed to me in an unguarded moment that he wrote that immortal poem, “ Girl in hammock — reading book,”) and he bows at her shrine as a fervent devotee. “ You can eat a Welsh rabbit, dish and all, without indigestion, if plenty of paprika is well stirred in while the cheese is melting,” he said to me once, and I really believe he would have tried it if it hadn’t been a silver-plated affair that I was rather fond of. Once upon a time he was in London, and had taken the underground railway at King’s Cross for Waltham Green. He became interested in a magazine article (I have often wondered what magazine that
The Bachelor and the Chafing-dish.
was) and neglected to change cars at Earlscourt. As a consequence he suddenly found the chimney-pots of London town disappearing in the distance, while before him spread out the green fields and suburban villas beyond Hammersmith and Ravensconrt. He appealed to the guard, who told him to hurry across the tracks and take the returning train; but the way was circuitous and elevated, and the gate was closed upon a sadder and wiser as well as a hungrier man, for dinner-time was come. A good dinner had been missed, and the schedule showed no train for an hour. A generous station manager, however, extended him the freedom of the platform on which to walk off his vexation. Then came a ray of hope. In the dim light of an October evening he saw, standing by the station wall, a row of slot machines arrayed along like wailing ghosts on the ragged headlands of the eternal future.
There were sixty long minutes of waiting to kill, “ and so,” murmured the poet, “ I will draw on my imagination (my friend has a plethora of this) and sumptuously dine ! ”
The margin of the magazine supplied an illustrated menu-card, and upon it was inscribed, “ Potage,” “Hors D’oeuvres,” “Poisson,” “Releve,” “ Entree,” “ Roti,” and “ Dessert.” Then began the dinner, each course being attended by a musical
A Dinner in a Slot. - 33.
prelude, which was produced by the rattling of a copper-in-the-slot machine. The nearest he could get to potage was fig-paste, while, for poisson, even my poet’s now feverish imagination failed, and with the usual prelude he weighed himself on automatical scales. A “ tuppence ” gave him entrees of sugared peanuts and lemon-drops, tutti-frutti and pepsin-gum. Then came the substantial roti in the form of slabs of sweet chocolate.