But this was in 1914, and a good
deal had happened since then. It appeared to me that the restaurant was not
exactly _au courant_ with international complications and the gastronomic
consequences of the Peace. I felt entitled to further illumination.
"I don't feel at all certain," I told the man, "that I ought to eat a
Petrograd steak. Is it a white steak?"
"Ah, no, not vite, not vite at all," he assured me. "Eet is underdone--not
much, but a little underdone. Ver good mince-up."
"I absolutely refuse to eat a Red Petrograd steak," I declared. "Have you
by any chance anything Jugo-Slavian on the menu?"
"Zere is ze jugged hare--"
"I think you misunderstand me," I interrupted; "this is a point of
principle with me. Supposing I consume this Czecho-Slovakian mince-up and
then have a piece of Stilton; there has been no war with Stilton, I
fancy--"
"Ver good, ze Stilton," interjected the chorus.
"And coffee--'
"Turkish coffee?" he said.
"There you go again," I grumbled.
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