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The food in England is as insipid and as wearisome

as the English Sunday. The cooks contrive to make any good food unsavoury. The fish is cooked without salt, without butter, without lemon. In order to swallow it, one has to have recourse to one of the numerous sauces, out of a bottle. In fact, nowhere are there so many spices consumed : pepper, mustard, ginger. This is not only a remark about the culinary art in England ; it is the key to the whole English mode of life. The sauce here is in no way linked with the dish ; the sauce lives a life of its own. Sauce here is like the witticisms of Bernard Shaw ; as regards the ordinary human days, they are watery and illusory, like infant pap, which every man consumes regardless of his age or calling.

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