Our breakfast, day after day,
week after week, has been bacon and eggs. One morning we had
tomatoes on bacon, and concluded that the cook had experienced
religion or fallen in love, since both these operations send a flush
of blood to the brain and stimulate the mental processes. But no;
we found simply that the eggs had not been brought in time for
breakfast. There is no consciousness of monotony--far from it; the
nobility and gentry can at least eat what they choose, and they
choose bacon and eggs. There is no running of the family gamut,
either, from plain boiled to omelet; poached or fried eggs on bacon
it is, weekdays and Sundays. The luncheon, too, is rarely inspired:
they eat cold joint of beef with pickled beetroot, or mutton and
boiled potatoes, with unfailing regularity, finishing off at most
hotels with semolina pudding, a concoction intended for, and
appealing solely to, the taste of the toothless infant, who, having
just graduated from rubber rings, has not a jaded palate.
How the long breakfast bill at an up-to-date Belfast hostelry awed
us, after weeks of bacon and eggs! The viands on the menu swam
together before our dazed eyes.
Porridge
Fillets of Plaice
Whiting
Fried Sole
Savoury Omelet
Kidneys and Bacon
Cold Meats.
I looked at this array like one in a dream, realising that I had
lost the power of selection, and remembering the scientific fact
that unused faculties perish for want of exercise.
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