It is only fair to say here that while crossing the terrific Pacific, picked out here and there with a and onion' and—'
With the discouraged shade of yellow. courage of Daniel. we asked for This may colour somewhat our fruit.
"Fruit!
Mein Gott! attitude towards food im general These Americans! They © cai and the League of Nations in particular.
At any rate as we rotate from board to board, from the raw green shrimp of the Chinese "ba do, ba shao," feast to the sour raw eel of the German dinner, from the Russian soup covered like a lazy pond.in late summer with a luxuriant green flora to the British soup containing everything from a pastry alphabet to ideas for a purple flannel evening wrap with Standard Oil can sequins, we think wistfully of home and Mother and Saturday night and the small brown bean.
Personal narrative we realize is considered as bad form as criticisms of one's hostess' food, but since we have every intention of doing one, we might as well include the other for thereby hangs a tale that should destroy many a cook book, Arriving in Shanghai on the first day of the annual. "hottest August in twenty: years,' after fourteen days in the icy breath of the North Pacific, we found ourselves established in what appeared on the surface to be the chance of a life-time.
A British lady going home with her husband,—temporarily,—sub-let us her bouse with the proviso that we should not in any way Americanize it,—least. of all her cook. She was tactful and we desperate so we promised like the good little boy to eat what was set before us.
We didn't. We couldn't. At luncheon while visions of iced drinks, fruit salads, and sherbetts swam before our eyes, steaming soups, roasts, vegetables, and puddings passed beneath our noses. And dinner was like unto it, only more so. We didn't dare speak to the cook so we went out and watched for a Britisher. But when he came along we didn't dare speak to him either.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.