But the snoring of my fellow-passengers answered this
question in the negative.
With the recollection of last night's dinner weighing on me as
heavily and coldly as the blankets, I began wondering why, over the
whole extent of the continent, there was no local dish; why the
bill of fare at restaurant and hotel was invariably only a weak
reflex of the metropolitan hostelries; why the entrees were always
the same, only more or less badly cooked; why the traveling
American always was supposed to demand turkey and cold cranberry
sauce; why the pretty waiter-girl apparently shuffled your plates
behind your back, and then dealt them over your shoulder in a
semicircle, as if they were a hand at cards, and not always a good
one? Why, having done this, she instantly retired to the nearest
wall, and gazed at you scornfully, as one who would say, "Fair sir,
though lowly, I am proud; if thou dost imagine that I would permit
undue familiarity of speech, beware!" And then I began to think of
and dread the coming breakfast; to wonder why the ham was always
cut half an inch thick, and why the fried egg always resembled a
glass eye that visibly winked at you with diabolical dyspeptic
suggestions; to wonder if the buckwheat cakes, the eating of which
requires a certain degree of artistic preparation and deliberation,
would be brought in as usual one minute before the train started.
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