A VEGETARIAN EATING HOUSE.
The immense success of the late Vegetarian Banquet at Leeds has induced an enterprising enthusiast to start an Eating House, conducted entirely without the assistance of the Butcher. But not only is the Butcher renounced, but also the Fishmonger, on the principle that it is wrong to catch fish: for vegetarianism professes to be an improvement on that doctrine, the first promulgators whereof were fishermen. The Poulterer is excluded likewise; for not even eggs are tolerated: it being considered cruel to rend the tie which exists between them and hens, if not cocks also: and although this objection may not apply in the case of ducks, by reason of the indifference of those birds to their eggs, yet it is thought that to eat ducks’ eggs would be to take a shameful advantage of the ducks’ neglect of their eggs. Recourse is not even had to the Dairyman; to drink cows’ milk is to rob calves: and if the cow has no calf, to milk her is to weaken her, by creating an artificial drain upon her constitution. Milk quite sufficient for the composition of puddings and pies is obtained from various plants, and the requirements of the tea and breakfast-table arc completely met by the milk of the cocoa nut.
In short, the Baker, the Greengrocer, and the Grocer in ordinary, purvey all the materials which form the bill of fare provided at these novel Refreshment Rooms: the staple of the kitchen is derived entirely from the kitchen-garden. The beverages—for the establishment is teetotal as well as vegetarian—essentially consist of the unfermented juice of the pump.
We have honoured this Vegetarian Eating House with a visit, and on inquiring what there was ready, were informed by the waiter that there was “some very nice grass just up.” “Do you think,” we cried, “that we are going to be such geese as to eat that ?” Nice young grass, Sir,” he repeated: “new cut.” The idea of grass made us ruminate a little. “Any hay?” said we. “No ‘ay, Sir,” answered the waiter, blandly. “No ‘ay, Sir; but beautiful ‘grass—sparrowgrass.”
“Peas, Sir?” suggested the waiter. We ordered peas. “Two peas—thoroughly done!” shouted the man, down a pipe.
“What will you take to drink, Sir?” he asked, returning to the table. “There’s toast-and-water—there’s apple-water, lemonade, ginger-beer.”
“Any ale?”
“Hadam’s hale, Sir; very old; first liquor as ever was drunk.”
Bring us a pot of Adam’s ale apiece; we prefer it mild.” “Yessir.” So saying the waiter disappeared; and presently returned with our dinner; for which, however, we found our two peas insufficient, so we demanded what else there was.
“Kidneys, Sir—fine kidneys. Marrow.”
“Come,” we said. “This is better than we thought. Kidneys and marrow. Bring a couple of marrow-bones.”
“No bones, Sir.” Vegetable marrow.”
“Two kidneys then.”
“Two kidneys, Sir. yessir.”
“Let them be devilled.”
“Very sorry, Sir: don’t devil our kidneys. Red-nosed kidneys, or kidney beans, Sir?”
“Red-nosed kidneys!” we cried in astonishment.
“Yessir. ‘Taturs, Sir.”
“Potatoes with red-noses!” we again exclaimed. “In this abode of Temperance! Well; never mind: bring us some of your debauched potatoes.”
” ‘Ow will you ‘ave them, Sir? Plain?”
“Hey ?—no. A la maitre d’hotel—that is with parsley and butter.”
“Parsley, Sir, we ‘ave; but no butter. Butter a hanimal substance, Sir; we use no hanimal substance. Ile, Sir.”
“One wants something else with potatoes,” we observed.
“You can ‘ave,” replied the waiter, minced turnip, or ‘ashed carrot, cabbage ‘art stuffed, scolloped hartiehokes, curried brocoli, fricasseed cucumber, roast onion, stewed endive, truffle and mushroom pie, beet-steaks, pumpkin chops.” We chose a slice of roast onion; and when we had eaten it, the waiter inquired whether we would take pastry or cheese. “How is it you have cheese,” we demanded, “and not butter?” “Damson cheese, Sir,” was his reply. We had some bread and damson cheese; and then asked what was to pay. “Yessir. Two peas is eight; and kidneys is five—that’s thirteen—and two roast onions is one shilling, two and a penny: and breads and cheeses four: and two waters a apeny each is two and fivepence apeny.”
We settled this little account without any demurrer; and under the excitement of the generous fare we had been partaking of, gave the waiter half-a-crown, telling him to keep the change, which amounted to a halfpenny for himself.