I forget what we had--"vol-au-vent d'oeufs de
Phenix--agneau aux pistaches a la Barmecide,"--what matters what we had?
"As regards supper this is certain, the less you have of it the better."
That is what one of the guests remarked,--a shabby old man, in a wig,
and such a dirty, ragged, disreputable dressing-gown that I should have
been quite surprised at him, only one never IS surprised in dr---- under
certain circumstances.
"I can't eat 'em now," said the greasy man (with his false old teeth, I
wonder he could eat anything). "I remember Alvanley eating three suppers
once at Carlton House--one night de petite comite."
"Petit comite, sir," said Mr. Sterne.
"Dammy, sir, let me tell my own story my own way. I say, one night at
Carlton house, playing at blind hookey with York, Wales, Tom Raikes,
Prince Boothby, and Dutch Sam the boxer, Alvanley ate three suppers, and
won three and twenty hundred pounds in ponies. Never saw a fellow with
such an appetite, except Wales in his GOOD time. But he destroyed the
finest digestion a man ever had with maraschino, by Jove--always at it."
"Try mine," said Mr. Sterne.
"What a doosid queer box," says Mr. Brummell.
"I had it from a Capuchin friar in this town.
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