An epicure, I mean to sing
    The table, as a subject fitting;
‘T is certainly a useful thing,
    And friendship’s ties is ever knitting.
Censure its weapons may unsheathe,
    To stop my song it is unable;
So, fearless of the critic’s teeth,
    I here discourse upon the table.

A tribute must be due, of course,
    To such an universal mother.
Of life the table is the source;
    Indeed, my friend, I know no other.
The pillow, where you lay your head,
    Is soft, but raises visions sable:
The dying wretch is on his bed,
    The jolly dog is at his table.

A dish that scatters rich perfumes
    Must charm the sense beyond all measure,—
The anxious nose the steam consumes,
    Inhaling mighty draughts of pleasure:
Compared to feasting, songs, and mirth,
    All other joys are but unstable;
The coldest heart that beats on earth
    Is melted by a smoking table.

Two rivals hear the church clock tell
    The moment that their life will take fast;
The second knows his business well,
    Who asks them both to come to breakfast.
All anger soon in wine is drowned,—
    To do such wonders wine is able,—
The rivals had been underground,
    Had they not rather sat at table.

Fat Raymond’s door is every day
    Besieged by countless cabs and chaises,
City and court their visits pay,
    And all alike resound his praises.
“His virtues, then, must be most rare,
    That thus his fame mounts up like Babel.”
“Not so.” — “Then vast his talents are?”
    ”No; but he keeps a first-rate table.”

At table on affairs we muse,
    At table marriage contracts settle,
At table win, and sometimes lose,
    At table wrangling shows our mettle;
At table Cupid plumes his wing,
    At table we write truth or fable,
At table we do everything,
    So let us never leave the table.

Now Grietje from her window sees the leafless poplars lean
Against a windy sunset sky with streaks of golden green;
The still canal is touched with light from that wild, wintry sky,
And, dark and gaunt, the windmill flings its bony arms on high.
“It’s growing late; it’s growing cold; I’m all alone,” says she;
“I’ll put the little kettle on, to make a cup of tea!”

Mild radiance from the porcelain stove reflects on shining tiles;
The kettle beams, so red and bright that Grietje thinks it smiles;
The kettle sings–so soft and low it seems as in a dream–
The song that’s like a lullaby, the pleasant song of steam:
“The summer’s gone; the storks are flown; I’m always here, you see,
To sing and sing, and shine, and shine, and make a cup of tea!”

The blue delft plates and dishes gleam, all ranged upon the shelf;
The tall Dutch clock tick-ticks away, just talking to itself;
The brindled pussy cuddles down, and basks and blinks and purrs;
And rosy, sleepy Grietje droops that snow-white cap of hers.
“I do like winter after all; I’m very glad,” says she,
“I put–my–little–kettle–on–to make–a cup–of–tea!”

From St. Nicholas, December, 1899.

How rare is thy rich, passion-giving worth.
    When weary of full many a Scottish mile,
    One rests, and stirs thee with a knowing smile
In some dim inn of Edinburgh or Perth.

Gods must have drunk thee at their wondrous birth,
    For in thee there is laughter and no guile,
    And they, enraptured, from some heavenly aisle,
Perchance have given thee to this sorrowing earth.

For when thou art near, the devil has the pain,
    No bitter frown is known, no caustic sneer,
       The world on golden axles moves and turns.
And then ring out again, and yet again,
    In manly accents, resolute and clear
       The immortal songs and glees of Bobby Burns!

It is imperative to follow a precise sequence when preparing a Balsamic Vinegar Dressing for all types of salads. Differently, the often expensive flavor of Italian Balsamic Vinegar is lost at the bottom of the salad bowl. The sequence is the following:

Salt goes first, followed by Balsamic Vinegar; and, last, Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Toss salad vigorously at every step.

First Step
Salt is used in food preparations for its ability to extract flavor from ingredients. Salt is like a magnet. Without it food flavor remains dormant inside the ingredient. In fact, a saltless recipe is generally bland and uninviting. Hence, spread salt evenly over the salad and toss well to drive salt in every nook and cranny of the salad leaves. The amount of salt to be used is a personal choice dictated by diet concerns. However, a minimum amount of salt is always required.

Second Step
Balsamic Vinegar is second in the sequence to give it a full chance to permeate as much of the greens as possible. Hence, add enough Balsamic Vinegar and toss and toss. The reason for adding Balsamic Vinegar secondly is because Extra Virgin Olive Oil in second position would cover the greens with a slippery film impeding the penetration of the Balsamic Vinegar, which would simply slide down to the bottom making the entire effort downright worthless and tasteless. Also, it’s important to note that good quality Italian Balsamic Vinegar can be quite expensive. It is important to exploit its full capacity.

Third Step
If you went through the trouble of procuring a good italian Balsamic Vinegar then there is no reason to shortchange yourself with a bad Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Do use a good enough amount of very good and expensive Extra Virgin Olive Oil. The difference in taste is immense. Keep in mind that all in all a relatively minimum amount of Extra Virgin Olive Oil is needed for salad dressing. It’s a good idea to have stored in the pantry an excellent Extra Virgin Olive Oil for to be used exclusively for salad dressing. Don’f forget to toss the salad after adding Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

Generally, the ratio of Extra Virgin Olive Oil to Balsamic Vinegar is 3 to 1, that is three parts of oil to one part of vinegar. However, the ratio is not set in stone. Before use, taste your balsamic vinegar to gauge its degree of flavor and consistency and use your best instinctual judgement (usually long aged balsamic vinegars are very flavorful compare to younger ones). Do the same for Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

POINTER
An Italian Balsamic Vinegar Dressing for salad is different from a common Vinaigrette, which is usually prepared in advance by whisking Olive Oil and wine Vinegar together. With common vinaigrettes after a brief while the vinegar descends to the bottom; consequently, it must be shaken again to have any consistency. Moreover, with vinaigrette the phenomenon repeats even after pouring the vinaigrette over the salad: after a while the vinegar descends to the bottom of the salad bowl never really impregnating the greens. It’s easy to imagine that the same would happen when using precious Italian Balsamic Vinegar; thus, seriously compromising the effectiveness of the dressing.

A Humorous Proverb Worth Mentioning
A Spanish proverb says that four persons are necessary to the proper preparation of a salad: —a spendthrift for oil, a miser for vinegar, a counsellor for salt, and a madman to stir it all up.

Italian Tradtional Balsamic Vinegar Of Modena (or else Reggio-Emilia) and original Italian Parmesan Cheese is a sublime combination of flavors and aromas. The pairing of the two transcends personal preferences. It’s impossible not to like it. Our primordial taste buds immediately respond to the goodness of the simply perfect tastefulness. However, to savor the experience to its fullest it is necessary to follow a very simple methodology used by true connoisseurs of Traditional Balsamic Vinegar. Here it is:

INGREDIENTS

- 200 grams Parmiggiano Reggiano Cheese
(best to use a young Parmiggiano Reggiano Cheese)

- 6 teaspoons (30 ml) Traditional Balsamic Vinegar Of Modena Or Reggio-Emilia
[best Traditional Balsamic Vinegar Of Modena "Extra Vecchio" (Extra Old) aged at least 25 years; or else Traditional Balsamic Vinegar of Reggio-Emilia Gold label, equally aged at least 25 years]

DIRECTIONS
Cut the Parmiggiano-Reggiano Cheese into slices 1/4 inch (1/2 cm) thick. Break the slices of cheese into slivers. Arrange the slivers of cheese into a large ceramic shallow plate (do not use a metal plate: the acid in the vinegar can react with the metal thus producing a metallic flavor). Sprinkle 3 teaspoons of Traditional Balsamic Vinegar evenly over the slivers of cheese and toss. Set aside 15 minutes. Again sprinkle the remaining 3 teaspoons of Traditional Balsamic Vinegar evenly over the slivers of cheese and toss. Once more, set aside 15 minutes to allow complete penetration of the Traditional Balsamic Vinegar. Serve using a pair of long-handle spoons.

POINTER
If precious 25 years Traditional Balsamic Vinegar is not readily available do use the 12 years “affinato” bearing the official consortium traditional balsamic vinegar seal, which of course is less expensive and consequently less flavorful. As last choice, use any other good quality Italian balsamic vinegar, even if it does not bear the official consortium seal. In short, make sure your balsamic vinegar is good enough.

VARIATION ON THE THEME
Pears and Parmesan cheese are an old time favorite in Italy. They compliment each other perfectly. It’s one of those matches made in culinary heaven, like figs and prosciutto for example. For variation to the above, try adding peeled slices of ripe pears. This way you’ll have three perfectly matched ingredients, instead of just two.

Espresso coffee in Italy is close to mandatory after a fine meal, whether lunch or dinner, at home or at restaurants. Espresso Coffee is also mandatory in the morning and throughout the day. In fact, upon meeting an acquaintance on the street chances are he/she will say: “Prendiamo un caffe…” (let’s go have a coffee). I daresay it’s impossible to find an Italian household without at least one stovetop moka pot stored away in a cabinet. I daresay it’s impossible to enter even a village in the most remote corner of Italy and not find at least one bar equipped with a shining espresso machine and the “barista” clinking the coffee spoon on the saucer to call attention to the hot coffee that has just finished brewing (the clinking of the spoon on the saucer to call attention is a sign of the barista professional ethics: it’s important to drink espresso coffee very hot. Heat increases and accentuates the aroma of espresso coffee. Most bars in Italy are even equipped with boiling hot water basins filled with small espresso cups, so that even the vessel for the espresso coffee is steaming hot). On the average in a year Italians consume 600 small cups of espresso coffee per capita, 70% of the 600 cups at home, 20% in a bar, and 10% at work. However, coffee consumption in Italy is lower than the EU average and lower than the rest of the world. The difference is mostly due to eating habits: in countries where per capita consumption is higher (Scandinavian countries with around 10 kilos per year) coffee is considered a light drink to be consumed during meals, whereas Italian espresso coffee has a stronger flavor and digestive-stimulating properties; hence, it is consumed in small doses solely after a meal or throughout the day as stimulant.

Flavors of espresso coffee in Italy vary from region to region. Every major city has its own coffee roasting tradition and often a great number of coffee manufacturing companies compete fiercely for a share of the market within a single city. By and large, espresso coffee South of Rome tends to be bitter, creamer, and concentrated. Above Rome espresso coffee becomes somewhat sweeter and watery. Mostly the difference is due to the coffee varieties used and roasting. Down South roasting of coffee beans lasts up to last possible moment resulting in much concentrated and bitter coffee aroma. Moreover, Southern coffee manufacturing companies mix in various degrees Arabica coffee and Robusta coffee (The Robusta coffee variety has caffeine content above 2% while the Arabica never goes over 1.2%. After roasting the Arabica beans are sweet, full of aroma, with a light acidic flavor. On the other hand, after roasting, Robusta beans have a chocolate flavor, density, and a persistent after taste). Diametrically opposite, Northern Italian coffee manufacturing companies use a lesser roasting time resulting in a diluted sweeter coffee aroma. Moreover, up North coffee manufacturing companies employ solely the Arabica Coffee variety. Hence, generally an espresso coffee in a bar in Naples down South is creamer, bitter, stronger, flavorful, and never served exceeding two fingers worth of liquid amount. Differently, up North in a bar in Milan or Venice for example, coffee is somewhat sweeter, with little cream floating on the surface, velvety and watery, served with twice as much of liquid amount.

In odd ways this hard versus soft coffee preference in Italy mirrors the pasta tradition throughout the country. Southern Italians love their pasta cooked “al dente;” that is pasta with a harder bite. Northern Italians instead prefer their pasta a tiny bit over-cooked and mushy. Moreover, there is no tradition in Southern Italy for egg pasta which is characteristically softer to the bite. All Southern Italian pasta is exclusively durum wheat dried pasta, whose main characteristic is the longer cooking time and harder feel. Same can be said for olive oil. Northern Ligurian Olive oil for example is way more lighter than a Southern Sicilian olive oil. The first is usually employed for salads and delicate fish preparations. The latter instead is used for hearty soups, pizza, grilled meats and fish. Upon digging deeper, similar scenarios can be found throughout Italian cuisine. For sure a social-political-cultural-economics pundit can surmise a plethora of intellectual theories to explain the Italian Southern predilection for direct strong flavors versus the Northern Italian affinities with gentler flavors. For brevity sake, bypassing valid arguments, running the risk of sounding simplistic, let’s just say that the sun and blue skies of Southern Italy versus a foggier cloudy North may be a factor. Sunshine brings out things in their acrid essence including food qualities and human behavior. Cloudy skies on the other hand cover things with a veil of buttery saccharin reminiscent of a less direct approach to life and even food. That said, whether bitter or sweet, espresso coffee in Italy has a common denominator. Italian cuisine is purist cuisine. All culinary preparations have to be pure in its form, flavor, and taste. No culinary preparation should ever be tainted with any accompanying extraneous flavors that would take away from the experience as it was intended. Therefore, coffee is never consumed during a meal, nor should it ever be drunk cold, too watery, too creamy, too of anything. Espresso coffee has to be just right, or it’s no good for consumption.

Two major companies widely acclaimed in Italy and throughout the world represent the best examples of the two different Italian espresso coffee cultures, Kimbo in the city of Naples in Southern Italy and Caffè Del Doge in the city of Venice in Northern Italy. Nowadays, both companies produce a great variety of different blends for different applications blurring marked differences. However, their classic coffee blends shed light on the demarcation line described above. A simple home-made test, that is an espresso coffee prepared at home with a moka pot, immediately reveals that Kimbo is denser stronger and somewhat bitter, while Caffè Del Doge coffee is sweeter, somewhat watery, and lighter. For sure the coffee roasting traditions perpetuated through centuries in both cities serve to explain the marked the difference. Let it be clear that nowhere throughout this exposé there is an intent to advocate kimbo coffee over Caffè Del Doge coffee or vice versa, nor do we wish to pass judgment over Northern and Southern Italian Cuisine. On the contrary the core intent is to present italian espresso coffee has another great example of the richness and complexity of the Italian culinary tradition. Whether the reader prefers sunny over misty, north over south, Kimbo over Caffè Del Doge, sweet or bitter coffee is a simple matter of personal taste (De gustibus non est disputandum – one must not dispute about tastes: Latin maxim).

Like the bar of the beaten gold
    I gleam in the summer sun;
I am little, I know, but I think I can throw
    A man that will weigh a ton.
I send out no challenges bold,
    I blow me no vaunting horn,
But foolish is he who treadeth on me;
    He’ll wish he had ne’er been born.

Like the flower of the field, vain man
    Goeth forth at the break of day;
But when he shall feel my grip on his heal,
    Like the stubble he fadeth away;
For I lift him high up in the air,
    With his heels where his head ought to be,
With a down-coming crash he maketh his mash,
    And I know he’s clear gone upon me.

I am scorned by the man who buys me,
    I am modest and quiet and meek;
Though my talents are few, yet the work that
      I do
    Has oft made the cellar-door creak.
I’m a canary-colored Republican born,
    And a Nihilist fearless I be;
Though the head wear a crown, I would bring
      its pride down,
    It it sets its proud heel upon me.

“HOG” AND “BACON.”
Once going the Northern Circuit as judge, before he had the Great Seal, Sir Nicholas Bacon was about to pass sentence on a thief convicted before him, when the prisoner, after various pleas had been overruled, asked for mercy on account of kindred.
- “Prithee,” said Judge Bacon, “how comes this about?”
- “Why, if it please you, my lord, your name is Bacon, and mine is Hog, and in all ages Hog and Bacon have been so near kindred that they are not to be separated.”
- “Ay, but,” replied the judge, “you and I cannot be kindred except you be hanged, for Hog is not Bacon until it be well hanged.”

HOT CORN
“How much corn can a man eat?” asked A, while the cobs on his plate lay in tiers.
“I would say,” answered Z, as he glanced at the heap, “it depends on the length of his ears.”

WAITERS
Surely at most restaurants the term waiters should be transferred from the table attendant to the guests on whom they attend.

MUSICAL INNS
Why is a badly-conducted hotel like a fiddle?
Answer: Because it’s a vile inn.

TENDER MEAT
A friend who dines at the different restaurants announces the discovery that in these places tender meat is always rare.

CARVING AT THE TABLE
A man asked another, whom he was about to help with some chicken, whether he wished the leg, the breast, or the wing, “It is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” said the other. “And infinitely more so to me,” replied the carver, laying down the knife and fork, and resuming his own dinner.

HUNGER AS A LIFE SAVER
A Man having lunch at a chic New York Hotel with a vigorous thrust stuck a large three-pronged dining fork into his own mouth. He was not materially injured, there being a piece of cold roast lamb on the end of the weapon.

FOOD MATH
The new teacher asked the following question to the class:
“John had five oranges. James gave him eleven and he gave Peter seven. How many did he have left?”
The entire class recoiled upon hearing the teacher’s question.
“Excuse me, sir, ” said a young boy, “but we always does our sums in apples.”

RESTAURANT TIP
– “Why is it,” asked a curious guest, “that poor men usually give larger tips than rich men?”
– “Very simple,” said the waiter, “the poor man doesn’t want anybody to find out he’s poor, and the rich man doesn’t want anybody to find out he’s rich.”

STRAWBERRIES
What did the strawberry say to the other strawberry?
Answer: Look at the JAM you’ve gotten us into!

A GRAPHIC EXPLANATION
Alexander Dumas happened to be in Switzerland at a roadside inn, where German alone was spoken, and he did all he could to impart to the master of the establishment that he wished to have some mushrooms. Finding that he could not make himself understood by language, he took up a piece of charcoal, and traced on the wall a likeness of the article which he wanted. The innkeeper, on seeing the representation, seemed quite pleased, and gave unmistakable signs of believing he comprehended. “At last!” exclaimed Dumas, “and not without difficulty! It is well, anyhow, to be a man of invention, or otherwise I shouldn’t have got my dish of mushrooms. Here comes the host; I hear him returning.” And so he did, holding in his hand — an umbrella!

A WITTY IRISHMAN
Way back in the 18th century, three men, an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotchman were found guilty of murder, and sentenced to be hanged. The judge told them they might each choose the tree on which they would like to suffer capital punishment.
The Scotchman promptly chose an ash-tree, and the Englishman an oak-tree.
   ”Well, Pat, what will you be hanged on?” asked the judge.
   ”If it pleases your Honour, I’d rather be hanged on a gooseberry bush.”
   ”Oh!” said the judge, “that is not big enough.”
   ”Then,” replied Pat, “I’ll wait till it is grown up.”

WAITER’S MANUAL
Appropriate answers when a customer complains “There is a fly in my soup.”
- Ssh! Everybody will want one!
- What do you expect for a dollar – elephants?
- Wait until you see the coffee.
- That’s all right. How much can a fly drink?
- Force of habit, Sir, Our chef used to be a tailor.

DESERT FOOD
Why should no man starve on the deserts of Arabia?
Because of the sand which is there.
How did the sandwiches get there?
The tribe of Ham was bred there, and mustered.

MILKY WAY
The milk of human kindness is not to be found in the pail of society. If it were to be found there, it would be a good idea for all hands to kick the bucket.

DON’T BREAK IN THE EGGS IN THE BASKET
- “Mother, is there any harm in breaking egg shells?”
- “Certainly not, my dear, but why do you ask?”
- “Cause I’ve just dropped the basket and the kitchen floor is yellow with yolk.”

INTELLECT VERSUS CRETIN
A stupid person one day seeing a man of learning enjoying the pleasures of the table, said, “So, sir, philosophers, I see, can indulge in the greatest delicacies.”—”Why not,” replied the other, “do you think Providence intended all the good things for fools?”

GOURMAND EPITAPH
“He Dined late and Died early.”

FOR LACK OF FOOD
When some one said of a gentleman, “Don’t speak so hard of him, he lives on your good graces,” Lady Ashburton remarked, “That accounts for him being so thin.”

PICKLE AND SALTER
Hicks was in Court at Bodmin Assizes, when a Mr Bickle was tried for a breach of promise of marriage to a Miss Salter. A certain eminent counsel who was engaged in the suit, threw across the table to Hicks these lines on a slip of paper—
 
          ”Oh! Mr Bickle
          You’re in a pickle
          For being fickle!”
 
Hicks threw back the paper with this answer—
 
          ”Tis true he did falter
          In going to the altar,
          But he’s not in a pickle,
          For he did not get Salter.”

FRUITY PUNISHMENT
Having been caught stealing fruit in the King’s orchard, two thieves were brought before the King, who readily asked the first of the two:
- “What did you steal?”
- “Cherries, your highness.”
- “Very well, as punishment you shall have all the cherries you stole inserted into your
    anus, one by one.”
Upon hearing the sentence, the second thief burst into laughter. The King immediately order him to stop laughing and asked:
- “Why were you laughing?”
- “Your highness, I stole watermelons.”

BARRING THE BEEF
A man asked another man to come and dine off boiled beef and potatoes with him. “That I will,” says the other; “and it’s rather odd it should be exactly the same dinner I had at home for myself, barring the beef.”

DOCTOR PRESCRIPTION
Falconnet, a very celebrated doctor, was called on by a patient who imagined herself ill. She told him that she ate well, drank and slept well, but “I see,” said the wily physician;
“I am going to give you a prescription that will rid you of all these ills.”

FRENCH BISTRO
“Garçon, your turbot is not so good as last Sunday.”
“Oh! Monsieur; how can you say so; it is the same one!”

At the same restaurant, the waiter brings a plate of fish to a customer, and at the same time a chop to another at the table in front.
First customer: “See here, Garçon, your fish smells.”
The waiter: “Beg your pardon, sir, it is the gentleman’s chop!”

GOURMET FISH
At a dinner-party Archbishop Whately called out suddenly to the host, “Mr. ——!” There was silence. “Mr. ——, what is the proper female companion of this John Dory?*” After the usual number of guesses an answer came, “Anne Chovy.”

* John Dory, also known as St Pierre or Peter’s Fish, refers to fish of the genus Zeus, especially Zeus faber, of widespread distribution. It is an edible benthic coastal marine fish with a laterally compressed olive-yellow body which has a large dark spot, and long spines on the dorsal fin.

LARGE SAUSAGE
At the table of a gentleman living in the Chaussee-d’Antin was served up an Aries sausage of an enormous size. —”Will you accept a slice?” the host asked a lady who was sitting next him; “you see it has come from the right factory.”
—” It is really very large,” said the lady, casting on it a roguish glance; “what a pity it is unlike anything.”

TWO CAKES
Little Jeanne was at lunch. There were two cakes on the plate. She had already disposed of one, and was making ready to finish the second, when her little brother stopped her, saying:
— “You know, there is one for me.” Jeanne hesitated a moment, then exclaimed:
— “How sorry I am; I began with yours.”

SEPARATE HAIR
At a provincial table d’hote the maid brought the soup; one of the habitues, finding some of the cook’s hair on his plate, turned to the hotelkeeper and cried out:
— “If I were you, I would have the hair served on a separate plate. Those that care for it might then help themselves.”

EATING CAKE
“You know, Johnny, you cannot have your cake and eat it too.”
“But, mother, how can I eat it unless I have it?”

FATTY SCHULTZ
— “You know Fatty Schultz the butcher. What do you suppose he weighs?”
— “I don’t know, what does he weigh?”
— “Meat.”

MILLIONAIRE APPETITE
A millionaire who had lost his appetite through satiety and indulgence, once met a poor man who said to him: “Sir, I’m dying of hunger.”
“You lucky scoundrel,” was the millionaire’s reply.

THE EGG
What did the egg say to the pot of boiling water?
Answer: “You expect me to get hard in five minutes when I got laid an hour ago!”

Fly Soup
Mr. Andrew took his boy to a restaurant last week to get a bowl of soup. Brenden began to eat it, and he grabbed his father by the coat and said, “papa, there’s fly in the soup.” Papa said, “eat the soup and wait till you come down to the fly, tell the waiter and he’ll give you another bowl for nothing.”

Bread And Butter
A good mother was careful to have her little boy repeat every night before retiring, the Lord’s prayer. Several times she noticed that the child made a stop, and muttered to himself, after the words: “Give us this day our daily bread.” So, one night when the usual pause was made, she said: “Why, dear, do you stop in your prayer?” “Well, mother, I just asked the Lord to put a little butter on the bread!”

CHEESE AND DESSERT
Two city ladies meeting at a visit, one a grocer’s wife, and the other a cheesemonger’s, when they had risen up and took their departure, the cheesemonger’s wife was going out of the room first, upon which the grocer’s lady, pulling her back by the tail of her jacket, and stepping before her, said: “No, madam, nothing comes after cheese.”

FRENCH ORGANIC MILK
A milk dealer of the suburbs of Paris brought to a lady customer, the usual morning can. Looking into it the lady was annoyed to find nothing but water. “It is water you have given me,” she cried. The milkman stopped to verify the fact, and remarked coolly: “Oh! my! they forgot to put the milk in it.”

ITALIAN EXTRAMARITAL PASTA
Once upon a time, somewhere in the middle of Rome, a prominent lawyer was having a secret affair with his secretary. One day the secretary announced that she was pregnant. The lawyer explained that being a married man with a successful law firm he couldn’t possible afford a scandal. He added that the best way out was for the secretary to leave town. He would then support financially both the secretary and the newborn. He told the secretary that she should send him a postcard the day the baby was born. In order no to raise suspicion, she should write the word “spaghetti” on the postcard.
A few months went by. One fine day the lawyer receives at his home a postcard from the secretary. The lawyer reads the postcard, feels terribly sick, and falls to the ground. Immediately, the lawyer’s wife calls the doctor, who inquires about the possible reasons for the illness. The lawyer’s wife explains that her husband fell sick after reading a postcard. She hands the postcard to the doctor. The postcard read:
“Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, three with meatballs and sausage, and two with clams.”

WINNING LOBSTER
At a fancy restaurant a businessman is brought a whole broiled lobster minus one claw. The businessman calls over the waiter and says:
— “What do you mean by serving me with a mutilated lobster?”
— “Excuse me, but ah didn’t think you’d mind a little thing like dat. These lobsters got to fighting in the basket and this one lost his claw,” said the waiter.
— “Take this lobster out immediately,” replied the businessman, “and bring me the winner!”

FROM SOLE TO UPPER
    ”What is this tough rubbery stuff?” the diner asked, when the second course of the dinner was served.
    ”That’s a filet of sole, sir,” replied the waiter.
    ”Take it away,” said the diner, after attacking it with a fork, “and see if you can’t get me a nice tender piece of the upper… without laces.”

POULTRY JEALOUSY
A prankster farmer played a trick on one of his chickens. Surreptitiously, he stole one of the chicken’s eggs, painted it in different colors, and put it back underneath the chicken. The chicken didn’t seem to mind. She sat on the painted egg as if nothing had happened. The farmer shrugged and walked away. A little while later, the farmer saw commotion on a far corner of the chicken coop. It was the rooster beating up the peacock.

THAT morning, which was a Sunday, Sureau, the pastry-cook on Rue Turenne, called his apprentice and said to him:
        ”Here are Monsieur Bonnicar’s little pies; go and take them to him and come back at once. It seems that the Versaillais have entered Paris.”
        The little fellow, who understood nothing about politics, put the smoking hot pies in the dish, the dish in a white napkin, and balancing the whole upon his cap, started off on a run for lie St. Louis, where M. Bonnicar lived. It was a magnificent morning, one of those bright, sunny May mornings which fill the fruit-shops with clusters of cherries and bunches of lilac. Despite the distant cannonading and the bugle-calls at the corners of the streets, that whole ancient quarter of the Marais retained its peaceful aspect. There was Sunday in the air; bands of children in the yards, tall girls playing battledore in front of the doors, and that little white silhouette, trotting along in the middle of the deserted roadway, amid a pleasant odour of hot pies, put the finishing touch of artlessness and Sun- day merriment to that morning of battle. All the life of the quarter seemed to have betaken itself to Rue de Rivoli. Cannon were being drawn thither and barricades thrown up; groups of people at every step. National Guardsmen full of business. But the little pastry-cook did not lose his head. Those children are so accustomed to walking in the midst of crowds and the uproar of the street! On saints’ days and holidays, when the streets are so crowded, early in the year, and on Sundays, they have the most running to do; so that revolutions hardly surprise them.
        It was really pleasant to see the little white cap dodge about amid the helmets and bayonets, avoiding collisions, maintaining its equilibrium, sometimes very rapidly, sometimes with a compulsory slowness in which one was conscious still of a longing to run. What difference did the battle make to him? The important thing was to arrive at Bonnicar’s on the stroke of noon, and to run away at once with the little fee which awaited him on the small table in the reception-room.
        Suddenly there was a terrible pressure in the crowd, and wards of the Republic passed at the double-quick, singing. They were lads of twelve to fifteen years, arrayed in helmets, red belts, and high boots; as proud of being disguised as soldiers as when they run about on Mardi gras with paper caps and a strip of a fancy pink umbrella, in the mud of the boulevards. This time, in the midst of the crowd, the little pastry-cook had much difficulty in keeping his balance; but his dish and he had slipped so many times upon the ice, had played so many games of hop-scotch on the sidewalk, that the little pies escaped with a fright. Unluckily that excitement, those songs, those red belts, combined with admiration and curiosity, aroused in the apprentice the desire to march a little way in such goodly company; and passing the Hotel de Ville and the bridges leading to lie St. Louis without noticing them, he found himself carried I know not whither, in the dust and the wind of that wild march.

FOR at least twenty-five years, it had been the custom of the Bonnicars to eat little pies on Sunday. At precisely twelve o’clock, when the whole family, great and small, was assembled in the salon, a sharp and merry ring at the bell would cause them all to say:
        ”Ah! there ’s the pastry-cook.”
        Thereupon, with a great moving of chairs, the rustle of Sunday clothes, the expansive joy of laughing children about the well-laden table, all those happy bourgeois would take their places around the Httle pies, symmetric-ally heaped upon the silver chafing-dish.
        That day the bell remained dumb. Monsieur Bonnicar, scandalised, looked at his clock, an old clock surmounted by a stuffed heron, which had never in its life gained or lost. The children yawned at the windows, watching the corner of the street where the apprentice usually appeared. Conversation languished, and hunger, which noon with its twelve strokes digs in the stomach, made the dining- room look very large and very dismal, de- spite the antique silver plate glistening on the damask cloth ; and the napkins all about, folded in the shape of little stiff white horns.
        Several times already the old cook had come to whisper in her master’s ear: the joint burned, the peas cooked too much. But Monsieur Bonnicar was obstinately determined not to take his place at the table without the little pies; and, furiously angry with Sureau, he resolved to go himself to see what such an unheard-of delay could mean. As he went out, brandishing his cane, hot with indignation, some neighbours warned him:
        ”Take care, Monsieur Bonnicar; they say that the Versaillais have entered Paris.”
        He refused to listen to anything, even to the cannonading which came from Neuilly, even to the alarm guns from the Hotel de Ville, which shook all the windows in the quarter.
        ”Oh! that Sureau! that Sureau!”
        And in his excitement he talked to himself, fancied himself already in the middle of the shop, striking the floor with his cane, making the mirrors in the show-window and the plates of sweetmeats tremble. The barricade on Pont Louis Philippe cut his wrath in two. There were some confederates there, of ferocious mien, strutting about in the sun on the unpaved ground.
        ”Where are you going, citizen?”
        The citizen explained, but the story of the little pies seemed suspicious, especially as Monsieur Bonnicar had on his fine Sunday coat, his gold spectacles, and wore every appearance of an old reactionary.
        ”He’s a spy,” said the confederates; “we must send him to Rigault.”
        Whereupon four enthusiasts, who were not sorry to leave the barricade, pushed the unfortunate, exasperated man before them with the butts of their guns.
        I know not how they accomplished it, but half an hour later they were all captured by troops of the line, and were sent off to join a long column of prisoners about to start for Versailles. Monsieur Bonnicar protested more and more loudly, brandished his cane, told his story for the hundredth time. Unfortunately the fable about the little pies seemed so absurd, so incredible in the midst of that intense
excitement, that the officers simply laughed.
        ”That’s all right, that’s all right, old fellow. You can explain at Versailles.”
        And through the Champs Élysées, still white with the smoke of the firing, the column moved off” between two rows of chasseurs.

THE prisoners marched five by five, in close, compact ranks. To prevent tiie escort from being separated, they were obHged to walk arm in arm; and the long human flock, tramping along through the dust of the road, made a noise like a heavy shower.
        The unfortunate Bonnicar thought that he was dreaming. Perspiring, puffing, beside himself with alarm and fatigue, he trailed along at the end of the column, between two old hags who smelt of petroleum and brandy; and from the words, “Pastry-cook, little pies,” which constantly occurred in his imprecations, everybody about him thought that he had gone mad. In truth, the poor man’s head was in a whirl. When they went up or down hill, and the ranks of the escort separated a little, he actually imagined that he saw, in the dust which filled the gaps, the white jacket and cap of the little apprentice at Bureau’s! And that happened ten times on the road. That little white flash passed before his eyes as if to mock at him; then disappeared amid the swell of uniforms, blouses, and rags.
        At last, at nightfall, they arrived at Versailles; and when the crowd saw that old fellow with spectacles, dilapidated, dust- covered, and haggard, everybody agreed that he had the face of a villain. They said:
        ”It’s Felix Pyat — no, it is Delescleuze.”
        The chasseurs of the escort had much difficulty in landing him safe and sound in the court of the orangery. Not until then could the poor flock scatter, stretch itself out on the ground, and draw breath. There were some who slept, others who swore, others who coughed, others who wept; but Bonnicar neither slept nor wept. Seated on a step, with his head in his hands, three-fourths dead with hunger, shame, and fatigue, he reviewed in his mind that unlucky day, his departure from his house, his anxious guests, that meal delayed until evening and still awaiting him; and the humiliation, the insults, and the blows with the butts of muskets, all because of an unpunctual pastry-cook.
        ”Monsieur Bonnicar, here’s your little pies!” suddenly said a voice close beside him; and the good man, raising his head, was greatly surprised to see the little apprentice from Sureau’s, who had been arrested with the wards of the Republic, remove his cap, and hand him the dish which was concealed under his white apron. Thus it was that, despite the riot and his imprisonment. Monsieur Bonnicar had his little pies on that Sunday as on others.

He had “struck it rich,” and determined on a visit to the East, and in accordance with this intent, had reached, Chicago. It was just before noon, when, having fixed himself a little in room 347, of the Palmer House, he sauntered down in search of the dining-room. He had not yet had time to adorn himself with store clothes, but wanted dinner, and his “biled” shirt and his coarse useful Western attire to correspond, gave him rather the appearance of a frontier greenhorn. He found the dining-room door partially open, and, walking in, seated himself at the first table he came to. The waiters eyed him curiously, because he was a little ahead of time, but not so far ahead that they thought it worth while to explain. The young man after making a wondering inspection of the frescoes on the ceiling and walls, and a general survey of the elegant surroundings, thought it time to commence dinner, so he hailed one of the waiters, who came cart in hand, and asked, “What soup, sir, will you have?” Our friend replied, “Don’t want soup.” Now, dinner being hardly ready, soup was a device to gain time; consequently, this abrupt, ungracious reply, and its tone, discouraged the waiter, who left him without saying a word. Another waiter, seeing him unattended, handed him a carte, and asked him “What! soup, sir, will you have?” to which he received reply, “I just told that other fellow I didn’t want soup; bring me a nice, solid dinner, and be quick about it.” Away sauntered the waiter, and, by this time, a few early lunchers, accustomed to take soup, began to drop in. The head waiter, seeing the young man sitting there still with nothing before him, stepped forward, tendering him a carte, and asked, “What soup will you have, sir?” This startled our friend, and he concluded they were “guying” him; so, looking sternly at the waiter, he said, “Look ye here, my friend, I’m perhaps a little rough to look at, but I guess I could buy your tarnation ranch; 1 came here for dinner, and don’t want slops; I want a solid square dinner; you’re the third or fourth feller that’s tried to crowd your swill on to me; what I want is a good square meal; if I can’t get it here, I’ll try to get it elsewhere.” The waiter endeavored to explain to him exactlv how the whole thing occurred, but did not succeed very well, and, although he sent him as square a meal as a man could wish, yet, when he went abroad in the afternoon to see the boys, the remembrance of the soup imposition was so uppermost in his mind that he bored his companions with it the whole time.
    Although our hero was averse to soup, the same objection did not extend to:
other liquid refreshments; and, by the time for retiring to rest he was so “happy” that we believe he would have forgiven the three waiters though they had said “soup” to him in chorus. By the aid of his companions he reached his bedroom, and they, having partially undressed him, bid him good-night, leaving his door slightly ajar. He was “too far gone ” even to shut it; so throwing himself on the bed he was soon fast asleep.
    It happened that a poor fellow in the next room, No. 349, was extremely sick, and was attended by a professional nurse, who had instructions from his doctor to administer a clyster to his patient at midnight. This nurse had gone down to the bar-room to chat with some friends; and, on looking at the clock, discovered he was half an hour beyond his time; so, hurrying back to his patient, syringe in hand (having had the injection prepared in the drug-store below), he made all speed into the room and administered his mission. It happened, however, that he had struck No. 347 instead of 349, and our hero, who lay dreaming of soup, was sufficiently awakened from his drunken stupor to partially take in the situation: as he clapped his hand behind him, he roused long enough to mutter, ”Great Scott! they’ve done it at last; I guess I’d better have swallowed it,” and fell sound asleep again.