In foreign kitchens

to the horror at the innovation. The Englishman is the determined enemy of any customs save his own, and if he brings his family to Paris brings also his relish for the form of cookery which the French cook can never comprehend. Naturally there are many English who conform, and even more Americans, but save for those who consider every foreign form as always and indisputably better than their own country can produce, there is always a longing for some hint at least of American cookery and methods of serving. Mark Twain, who seems to have gone hungry through all Europe, sums up the ordinary dinner, — a French one, since their cooks are everywhere : — " The European dinner is better than the European breakfast, but it has its faults and inferiorities ; it does not satisfy. The American comes to the table eager and hungry ; he swallows his soup. There is an indefinable lack about it somewhere. Thinks the fish is going to be the thing he wants ; eats it, and is n't sure. Thinks the next dish is perhaps the one that will hit the hungry place ; tries it, and is conscious that there was something wanting about it also. And thus he goes on. . . . There is here and there an American who will say he can remember rising from an European table could rise from an European table perfectly satisfied ; but we must not overlook the fact that there is also here and there an American who will lie. " The number of dishes is sufficient, but then it is such a monotonous variety of unstriking dishes. It is an inane dead level of *fair to middling.* There is nothing to accent it. Perhaps if the roast of mutton or of beef — a big, generous one — were brought on the table and carved in full view of the client, that might give the right sense of earnestness and reality to the thing ; but they don't do that, — they pass the sliced meat around on a dish ; and so you are perfectly calm, — it does not stir you in the least. Now a vast roast turkey, stretched on the broad of his back, with his heels in the air, and the rich juices oozing from his fat sides, — but I may as well stop here, for they would not know how to cook him. They can't even cook a chicken respectably, and as for carving it, they do it with a hatchet." Here speaks the voice of many wandering Americans, who reflect at intervals on American oysters, on roasted potatoes and fried chicken, and buckwheat cakes, and green corn, and corn-bread, and many another missing dish. But when old habits are put aside, one finds that the new ones have their own excellencies. The last line of Mark Twain's charge, that, as to carving their chicken, they " do it with a hatchet," holds one of the best features of Continental methods. At home, in fricassee, or stew, or fried, the breast is usually left in one piece, and only one or two secure any; whereas, abroad, a sharp cleaver, part of every kitchen furnishing, cuts it neatly in four, or, if large enough, six pieces, and thus all may share the delicacy. The long backbone becomes in the same way much more manageable; and this is true of all poultry or game used in salmis or made-dish of any sort. One result of the tiny kitchens, and the absolute absence of space for stores, is that nothing is kept on hand. French thrift shows itself here as in everything else. Charcuteries or cook-shops, furnish every form of cold meat, galantine, etc., while an order provides any hot dish desired. Less pretentious ones have cooked vegetables, hot at fixed hours, and sold in portions at any time. In fact, food of every nature whatever