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Literary
August 2, 1912
Wauwatosa News
Wauwatosa, Milwaukee County, Wisconsin
What is this article about?
Oliver Wendell Holmes humorously criticizes taverns for their poor food quality, uncleanliness, and subpar service, contrasting them with the cleanliness and comfort of home, where meals are fresh and properly prepared.
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OCR Quality
98%
Excellent
Full Text
HIS PREFERENCE FOR HOME
Oliver Wendell Holmes Unable to Get
Any Real Pleasure in the
Vaunted "Tavern."
Don't talk to me about taverns!
There is just one genuine, clean, decent, palatable thing occasionally to be had in them—namely, a boiled egg.
The soups taste pretty good sometimes, but their sources are involved in a darker mystery than that of the Nile. Omelettes taste as if they had been carried in the waiter's hat, or fried in an old boot. I ordered scrambled eggs one day. It must be that they had been scrambled for by somebody, but who—who in the possession of a sound reason could have scrambled for what I had set before me under that name? Butter! I am wondering why the taverns always keep it until it is old. Fool that I am! As if the taverns did not know that if it was good it would be eaten, which is not what they want. Then the waiters, with their napkins—what don't they do with those napkins! Mention any one thing of which you think you can say with truth, "That they do not do."
Every six months a tavern should burn to the ground, with all its traps, its "properties," its beds and pots and kettles and start afresh from its ashes like John Phoenix—Squibob.
No; give me home, or a home like mine, where all is clean and sweet, where coffee has pre-existed in the berry and tea has still faint recollections of the pigtails that dangled about the plant from which it was picked, where butter has not the prevailing character which Pope assigned to Denham, where soup could look you in the face if it had "eyes" (which it has not), and where the comely Anne or the gracious Margaret takes the place of these napkin bearing animals.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Unable to Get
Any Real Pleasure in the
Vaunted "Tavern."
Don't talk to me about taverns!
There is just one genuine, clean, decent, palatable thing occasionally to be had in them—namely, a boiled egg.
The soups taste pretty good sometimes, but their sources are involved in a darker mystery than that of the Nile. Omelettes taste as if they had been carried in the waiter's hat, or fried in an old boot. I ordered scrambled eggs one day. It must be that they had been scrambled for by somebody, but who—who in the possession of a sound reason could have scrambled for what I had set before me under that name? Butter! I am wondering why the taverns always keep it until it is old. Fool that I am! As if the taverns did not know that if it was good it would be eaten, which is not what they want. Then the waiters, with their napkins—what don't they do with those napkins! Mention any one thing of which you think you can say with truth, "That they do not do."
Every six months a tavern should burn to the ground, with all its traps, its "properties," its beds and pots and kettles and start afresh from its ashes like John Phoenix—Squibob.
No; give me home, or a home like mine, where all is clean and sweet, where coffee has pre-existed in the berry and tea has still faint recollections of the pigtails that dangled about the plant from which it was picked, where butter has not the prevailing character which Pope assigned to Denham, where soup could look you in the face if it had "eyes" (which it has not), and where the comely Anne or the gracious Margaret takes the place of these napkin bearing animals.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
What sub-type of article is it?
Essay
Satire
What themes does it cover?
Social Manners
What keywords are associated?
Taverns
Home
Cleanliness
Food Quality
Waiters
Domestic Comfort
What entities or persons were involved?
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Literary Details
Title
His Preference For Home
Author
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Subject
Unable To Get Any Real Pleasure In The Vaunted "Tavern."
Key Lines
Don't Talk To Me About Taverns!
There Is Just One Genuine, Clean, Decent, Palatable Thing Occasionally To Be Had In Them—Namely, A Boiled Egg.
Every Six Months A Tavern Should Burn To The Ground, With All Its Traps, Its "Properties," Its Beds And Pots And Kettles And Start Afresh From Its Ashes Like John Phoenix—Squibob.
No; Give Me Home, Or A Home Like Mine, Where All Is Clean And Sweet...