But no enthus'm from Ira. Must be a hot town, that Boothbay joint!
Along about six-thirty I suggests that it's time for the big eats, and
tries to sound him on his partic'lar fancy in the food line.

"Plate of fish chowder would suit me," says Ira after due contemplation.

"Fish what?" says I. "'Fraid we don't grow anything like that on
Broadway. Nix on the shore dinner! You trust it to me, Mr. Higgins,
and I'll steer you up against some appetite teasers that'll make you
forget all the home cookin' you ever met."

With that I leads him to the flossiest French cafe I knew of, got him
planted comf'table under an illuminated grape arbor, signals
François-with-the-gold-chain-around-his-neck to stand by, and remarks
casual, "Wine list for this gentleman. Cut loose, Mr. Higgins. This
is on the boss, you know."

"What say?" says he, runnin' his eye over the book that the waiter
holds out. "Rum? No, Sir!"

"Flit then, François," says I. "We're two dry ones."

And my hope of gettin' a tongue loosener into Ira goes glimmerin'.
When it comes to tacklin' strange dishes, though, he was no quitter,
followin' me from bouillabaisse to café parfait without battin' an
eyelash, and me orderin' reckless from the card just to see what the
things looked like.

I don't know whether it was the fancy rations, or the sporty crowd