THE INN KITCHEN
by Washington Irving
Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?
FALSTAFF.
DURING a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I hadarrived one evening at the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a smallFlemish village. It was after the hour of the table d'hote, so thatI was obliged to make a solitary supper from the relics of itsampler board. The weather was chilly; I was seated alone in one end ofa great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, I had theprospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible meansof enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested something toread; he brought me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutchfamily Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of oldParis newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, readingold and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with burstsof laughter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one thathas travelled on the continent must know how favorite a resort thekitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order oftravellers; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather, when afire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the newspaper,and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the group thatappeared to be so merry. It was composed partly of travellers whohad arrived some hours before in a diligence, and partly of theusual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round agreat burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar,at which they were worshipping. It was covered with various kitchenvessels of resplendent brightness; among which steamed and hissed ahuge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light uponthe group, bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellowrays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away intoremote corners; except where they settled in mellow radiance on thebroad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back fromwell-scoured utensils, that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. Astrapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and anecklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presidingpriestess of the temple.
Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of them withsome kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occasioned byanecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen faceand large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the end ofeach of which there was one of those bursts of honest unceremoniouslaughter, in which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, aninn.
As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blusteringevening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a variety oftravellers' tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. All ofthem, however, have faded from my treacherous memory except one, whichI will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chiefzest from the manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air andappearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who hadthe look of a veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished greentravelling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair ofoveralls, with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of afull, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and apleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from underan old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. Hewas interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or theremarks of his auditors; and paused now and then to replenish hispipe; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly jokefor the buxom kitchen-maid.
I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling in a hugearm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously twistedtobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated with silverchain and silken tassel- his head cocked on one side, and awhimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the followingstory.
THE END
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1819-20
