The
author remembers arriving at a roadside inn, in a remote part of
Dauphiny, immediately under the foot of the Pic du Midi. On looking at
the clay floor, and the worn state of the furniture, he remarked to his
friend, "Surely we can get no dinner here." "Wait till you see," was his
answer. In about half-an-hour, the table (though propped up) was spread
with a clean table-cloth; and successive dishes of soup, fowl,
"ros-bif," pomme-de-terre frite, French beans, with wholesome bread and
butter, made their appearance. In the principal inns of most provincial
towns in England, it would not have been possible to obtain such a
dinner.
Great would be the gain to the community if cookery were made an
ordinary branch of female education. To the poor, the gain would be
incalculable. "Among the prizes which the Bountifuls of both sexes are
fond of bestowing in the country, we should like to see some offered for
the best boiled potato, the best grilled mutton chop, and the best
seasoned hotch-potch, soup, or broth. In writing of a well-boiled
potato, we are aware that we shall incur the contempt of many for
attaching importance to a thing they suppose to be so common. But the
fact is, that their contempt arises, as is often the origin of contempt,
from their ignorance--there being not one person in a hundred who has
ever seen and tasted that great rarity--a well-boiled potato.
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