Most of the British
doctors on the Continent make the greater part of their living by
attending their fellow-countrymen who drink everywhere anything that is
given them free, and who hold that the _vin du pays_ must be drinkable
because it _is_ the wine of the country. Our compatriots often swallow
the throat-cutting stuff which the farm labourers and stable hands
drink, sooner than pay a little extra money for the sound wine of the
district. The foreigner who came to Great Britain and drank our cheapest
ale and rawest whisky would go away with a poor impression of the
liquors of _our_ country. Drink the wine of the district where they make
good wine, but do not grudge the extra shilling which makes all the
difference in quality. The dinners and lunches on the big express Rhine
steamers are a scramble for food; but on some of the smaller and slower
boats, where the caterer has fewer passengers to feed, the meals are
often very good. I have a kindly memory of an old head steward, a
fatherly old gentleman in a silk cap shaped somewhat like an accordion,
who provided the meals on a leisurely steamer which pottered up the
Rhine, stopping at every village. He gave us local delicacies, took an
interest in our appetites, and his cookery, though distinctively German,
was also very good.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153