This is much better than in the south, where
we, and sixty other travellers, were once kept waiting fifteen minutes
between the soup and the fish course. When we were finally served with
half-cooked turbot, a pleasant-spoken waitress went about to each table,
explaining to the irate guests that the cook was 'not at her best.' We
caught a glimpse of her as she was being borne aloft, struggling and
eloquent, and were able to understand the reason of her unachieved
ideals.

There is nothing sacred about dinner to the average Irishman; he is
willing to take anything that comes, as a rule, and cooking is not
regarded as a fine art here. Perhaps occasional flashes of starvation
and seasons of famine have rendered the Irish palate easier to please;
at all events, wherever the national god may be, its pedestal is not
in the stomach. 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. The man who was serving us
rattled his tray, shifted his weight wearily from one foot to the other
and cleared his throat suggestively; until a