A bit of xenophobia for breakfast
by Instant Noodle
(BY A PREJUDICED MAN.)
Nice of you to admit it.
PERHAPS there is no more striking difference between the gross English and the refined French than in the matter of eating. “Les Anglais! Mon Dieu! Comme ils mangent!” says your Parisian, and with reason, no doubt. For young MR. BULL would, in all probability, have gone the length of eating an egg and a piece of dry toast, or even a rasher of bacon, with a cup of tea, by way of breakfast; whereas the young fellows in the picture have had nothing in the world but a couple of fowls, with nice greasy sauce a dish of cutlets, accompanied by mushrooms, olives, and cockscombs – a melon – a bowl of eggs beaten up with truffles – about a pint of currant juice and iced water – a large crayfish, or lobster, a bottle of ordinary red wine, some salad, with plenty of oil, four peaches, two apricots, a dish of potatoes a la mattre d’ hotel, two cups of coffee and some rum, a yard and a half of bread, and just a handful or so of radishes, a few almond and ratifia cakes, and a dozen lumps of sugar! How much more delicate and sensible is such a meal! And yet, somehow or other, at the age of thirty, a Frenchman is generally obliged to wear stays to preserve his figure, and he has no digestion to speak of.