Accent on Living

WHERE is Whichita?” Thus read the first of “Twenty Questions for Your Amusement,” the daily quiz tucked under one’s cabin door each morning. The quiz was the nearest approach to the use of the mind that was attempted by anyone on the eight-day boat from New York to Liverpool. It seemed to be intended, hopefully, to enlarge the AngloAmerican store of information, and it became for me a valued substitute for a morning paper.

“How high is Mt. McKinley?” “How many gallons make a firkin?” These were questions to set the breakfast tables abuzz; in the way of life on our leisurely boat, where time stands still or even loses a little ground, they were just as welcome as any amount of news stories.

“In which English county is the Woo key Hole cave?” “What is depicted on the back of a U.S. thousanddollar bill?” This last was tucked in as something that the Americans would be sure to know, and there were similar questions on other days about the hundred-dollar and fiftydollar denominations. No questions were asked, naturally enough, about British currency, simply because everybody knows all about that and always has.

The preparations for the Fancy Headdress Competition (sixth night) were the only other demand on our intellects. A BBC news broadcast was undertaken each day around noon; on the one occasion that I tried it out a Bishop, just returned to London from Singapore, was being interviewed.

“And what shall you be doing while you are in London?” asked the interviewer.

“I have,” replied the Bishop amiably, “a great many things indeed to do — many, many things.” He seemed to feel that this might have gone without saying, for he hemmed and hawed a moment, groping for further tidings to report. “There are two appointments to the staff which must be made,” he added. “I hope, also, to get some rest.” If did not hear all of the broadcast, for big seas were coming over the bow in too spectacular a fashion to be missed.

Food was simple, but its variety, abundance, and quality were all that onecould wish. The bakery alone, with a half-dozen or more new versions of toast each morning, was a demonstration of how far we have wandered, at home, from the art of breadmaking. Muffins, baps, buns, scones—these were to be chosen thoughtfully as a foil for Danish bacon; yet the ordinary white bread and hard rolls were of a yeasty freshness rarely experienced ashore.

It was true that the cooking — or rather the presentation — was artless, quite without blandishment. If one ordered a slice of duck, that was what came — an astonishingly plain, stark slice of duck, by far the least embellished, the most scrupulously unequipped slice of duck that could possibly be. But it was faultlessly cooked and extremely good, and with all deference to M. Weehsbcrg and his French vessels, I suspect that this kind of cooking is more to the American taste than the French style.

As for wine, it began at 70 cents for red or white Bordeaux ordinaire; the best ‘45 champagnes were $4.85, whisky 30 cents, and most cocktails around half a dollar.

Two standing headings on the noon and evening menus did unnerve me slightly. The first, which came directly after the fish course, was “Farinaceous”— a rather too categorical term for comfort, it seemed to me, for such dishes as gnocchi, ravioli, and pastas in general. It smacked of what a 4-H Club contestant shrewdly feeds his prize yearling, with overtones of Gayelord Hauser.

The other heading, next in order on the menu, was even more disturbing: “Vegetarian.”This word cloaked perfectly harmless listings such as an omelet, stuffed peppers, or mushrooms on toast, which almost anyone might reasonably eat in the ordinary course of a meal but which, under the heading, took on a highly clinical quality. To order Baked Tomato and Mushrooms from “Vegetarian” would have seemed like lunching in a health-food establishment or joining some cult, and the word was a reminder that, even as we ate, there were doubtless among us a small but formidable group of those who abhor meat in any form. I could not believe that Foyot or Lapérouse, for instance, would countenance the reference, and I am sure they would turn away from their doors any persons manifesting an interest in that sort of food. But the rest of the menu was amply fortified, fad-free and rewarding.

Although the cabins were plain and attractive, the décor of this eight day Britisher — one class only — was rather rugged in the public rooms; so much so that the solid comforts aboard were almost handicapped by the blinding varnish and juke-box lighting effects. The grand piano in the cinema-lounge had been made to match — at what pains one is saddened to imagine — the vast areas of burl veneer elsewhere in the room, and the furniture was new and very ugly.

The other amenities were more persuasive. A post-war vessel, its ventilation everywhere was perfection; the sheets and pillowcases were fine Belfast linen; the damasks of the dining saloon were glossy and richly patterned.

The staff was capable, mannerly, and the service throughout was incomparably good. The first three of our eight days were given over to influenza, but the cabin steward, Williams, and the stewardess, Mrs. Gallagher, managed to make us feel with every meal that we were adventuring in a succession of three-star restaurants. It was heart-warming to find people who worked so devotedly at their job, whatever the job was, and who were so extremely good at it.

For anyone with a few extra days to spare and who enjoys life at sea, the eight-day boat is a wonderful run for the money.

Oh yes — the location of Whichita, I learned from the prize-winning set of answers on the ship’s bulletin board, is “Kansas, U.S.A.” Kansas papers please copy.