"Eet is mince-up," he said melodramatically. "Ze Petrograd steak ver
good. Two minute--mince-up."
"But isn't that a Vienna steak?" I asked.
A spasm of pain passed over his face. "Before ze War," he whispered, "yes,
Vienna steak. Now we call it ze Petrograd. You vill have one? Yes? Two
minute."
Memories came flooding back of that moment of crisis which had found so
many of our trusted statesmen ill-prepared, but, terrible as it was, had
not caught the managers of London restaurants napping. I remembered the
immense stores of Dutch lager beer which they had so providentially and so
patriotically held in anticipation of the hour of need. Dutch beer, both
light and dark, so that inveterate drinkers of Munich and Pilsener were
enabled to face Armageddon almost without a jerk. They had other things
ready too--Danish _pate de fois gras_, Swiss liver sausages, Belgian
pastries and the rest. It was in that dark hour, I suppose, that the Vienna
steak set its face towards the steppes.
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