the tree were of macaroni, which fell, long and lovely, into my mouth, and in between, instead of sunrays, flowed sweet streams of golden butter, and at last a fair white rain of powdered Parmesan.
But from the macaroni of which one dreams no one grows fat—Beatrice!
Not a word about German cookery. It has every virtue and only one fault; and what that is I shall not tell. It has deeply feeling, susceptible pastry without decision, enamoured egg-dishes, admirable steamed dumplings,[1] soul soup with barley,[2] pancakes with apples and pork, virtuous home-forced meat balls, and sour cabbage—lucky he who can digest it!
As for the Dutch cookery, it differs from the last, firstly in neatness, secondly by its peculiar relish. The preparation of fish is there indescribably delightful. A perfume of celery, which moves one to the very heart, and is yet deeply intellectual. A self-conscious naïveté and garlic.[3]
But when I arrived in Leyden I found the food frightfully bad. The Republic of Hamburg had spoiled me—I must again extol the cookery there, and avail myself of the opportunity to praise the pretty girls and dames of that dear
- ↑ Tüchtige Dampfnudeln. In Pennsylvania known as Noodles.
- ↑ Gemüthssuppe. Gemuth is rather one's peculiar disposition or habitual temperament. Pun on Gemüse, soft or green vegetables.
- ↑ Perhaps it is hardly worth while to remind the reader that as in the case of Italy, all of this peculiar cookery has almost disappeared from the hotels of Holland.
