How could a man with such a name serve anything else
than the purest Italian cookery, I reasoned, so I ordered,
unquestioning, a piatio with an ideal Italian name, Manzo alla
Terracina. Alas! the beef used in the composition thereof must
have come in a refrigerating chamber from pastures more remote than
those of Terracina, and the sauce served with it was simply fried
onions. In short, my dish was beefsteak and onions, and very bad
at that. So in despair I fell back upon the trusty British chop."
As Van der Roet ceased speaking another guest entered the room, and
he and Sir John listened attentively while the new-comer gave his
order. There was no mistaking the Colonel's strident voice. "Now,
look here! I want a chop underdone, underdone, you understand, with
a potato, and a small glass of Scotch whisky, and I'll sit here."
"The Colonel, by Jove," said Sir John; "I expect he's been
restaurant-hunting too."
"Hallo!" said the Colonel, as he recognised the other two, "I
never thought I should meet you here: fact is, I've been reading
about agricultural depression' and how it is the duty of everybody
to eat chops so as to encourage the mutton trade, and that sort of
thing.
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