At the beginning of this century delicatessen stores were so new and exciting to this country that the imported word was used playfully by our native elite: "Would that be the delicatessen thing to do?" ** Let's go delicatessening" — like our present Eng- lish importation ** Let's go pub-crawling." Delicatessens then were smart city shops which supplied Westphalian hams, the raw sau- sage of Aries, anchovies chasing their tails in olive oil, caviar and such, all the juicy black breads and spicy black puddings that our leisure class had learned to love on trips abroad. Although some of these foreign specialties were plebeian enough abroad, they were much too good for the common people here after duty had been paid. We remember Percivars French delicatessen on Sixth Avenue just above Eighth Street, in New York, where Ugobono's is now. And the only way we could beat Percival's price for imported 138 DAMN THAT DELICATESSEN HABIT ! I39 camembert was when he had too many cheeses ripening all at once — he was the original importer of the excellent Torre Eifel Brand and shipped it to delicatessens all over the U. S. Then he had to sell them out three for a quarter, nice, round, ripe wooden boxes velvety with the cream of cheeses that we've never been able to imitate. But look at the thing now! The delicatessens are full of sloppy American-made atrocities that sell in bad condition for as much as the genuine camembert used to bring. And American Roquefort should be a national scandal. The women's magazines taught us that Roquefort was the smart thing, especially when mashed with butter for a spread, and the original imported wasn't so bad, but now it looks as though the French are sending us chips off the chalk cliffs of Dover and we're actually paying as high as ^2.00 a pound for the stuff when we buy it in ten and fifteen cent doses at the delicatessen. And not only that, but an incredibly bad domestic imitation is palmed off by delicatessen dealers who know their public will stand for anything — even processed cheeses. The delicatessen habit has grown upon us so subtly that many weary laborers returning home on payday, too worn-out to think of cooking, stop in at the nearest delicatessen and blow a day or two's pay for bologna that's got less meat than a gnawed drumstick and is likely to blow up the stomach like a balloon; on synthetic liverwurst, too, that goes green even in the icebox and is apt to cost a visit to the doctor; on processed cheese pastes that resemble cheese about as much as Big Bill Thompson resembled King George, and half a dozen bottles of beer with halitosis caused by its greenness and the rice its made of instead of slower maturing grain, and sold at a fixed price of 3 for two-bits plus deposits on bottles we've been taught it's almost shameful to return. So, many hurried city workers are as much in the clutch of the delicatessen habit as they are in the hands of the druggist who sells them a lousy ham sandwich for 15^ at noon, with just a trace of ham paste blown on, and then a watery drink for a dime. Our human need for lunching has been turned into a swell way to produce drug-chain dividends out of foodless food, but with the small independent delicatessen keeper it's different, for he's as 140 MOST-FOR-YOUR-MONEY COOK BOOK much in the grabbing hands of the makers of fake foods as we are in his.

AI-modernized reading of the original text

At the beginning of this century delicatessen stores were so new and exciting to this country that the imported word was used playfully by our native elite: "Would that be the delicatessen thing to do?" ** Let's go delicatessening" — like our present English importation ** Let's go pub-crawling." Delicatessens then were smart city shops which supplied Westphalian hams, the raw sausage of Arles, anchovies chasing their tails in olive oil, caviar and such, all the juicy black breads and spicy black puddings that our leisure class had learned to love on trips abroad. Although some of these foreign specialties were plebeian enough abroad, they were much too good for the common people here after duty had been paid. We remember Percivars French delicatessen on Sixth Avenue just above Eighth Street, in New York, where Ugobono's is now. And the only way we could beat Percival's price for imported [illustration: DAMN THAT DELICATESSEN HABIT! 139] camembert was when he had too many cheeses ripening all at once — he was the original importer of the excellent Torre Eifel Brand and shipped it to delicatessens all over the U. S. Then he had to sell them out three for a quarter, nice, round, ripe wooden boxes velvety with the cream of cheeses that we've never been able to imitate. But look at the thing now! The delicatessens are full of sloppy American-made atrocities that sell in bad condition for as much as the genuine camembert used to bring. And American Roquefort should be a national scandal. The women's magazines taught us that Roquefort was the smart thing, especially when mashed with butter for a spread, and the original imported wasn't so bad, but now it looks as though the French are sending us chips off the chalk cliffs of Dover and we're actually paying as high as ^2.00 a pound for the stuff when we buy it in ten and fifteen cent doses at the delicatessen. And not only that, but an incredibly bad domestic imitation is palmed off by delicatessen dealers who know their public will stand for anything — even processed cheeses. The delicatessen habit has grown upon us so subtly that many weary laborers returning home on payday, too worn-out to think of cooking, stop in at the nearest delicatessen and blow a day or two's pay for bologna that's got less meat than a gnawed drumstick and is likely to blow up the stomach like a balloon; on synthetic liverwurst, too, that goes green even in the icebox and is apt to cost a visit to the doctor; on processed cheese pastes that resemble cheese about as much as Big Bill Thompson resembled King George, and half a dozen bottles of beer with halitosis caused by its greenness and the rice its made of instead of slower maturing grain, and sold at a fixed price of 3 for two-bits plus deposits on bottles we've been taught it's almost shameful to return. So, many hurried city workers are as much in the clutch of the delicatessen habit as they are in the hands of the druggist who sells them a lousy ham sandwich for 15^ at noon, with just a trace of ham paste blown on, and then a watery drink for a dime. Our human need for lunching has been turned into a swell way to produce drug-chain dividends out of foodless food, but with the small independent delicatessen keeper it's different, for he's as much in the grabbing hands of the makers of fake foods as we are in his.

Most for your money cookbook