sane, and sure. It agrees with you. As you hesitate there sounds in
your ear a soft and insinuating Voice.

"You'll find the tongue in aspic very nice today," purrs the Voice.
"May I recommend the chicken pie, country style? Perhaps you'd relish
something light and tempting. Eggs Benedictine. Very fine. Or some
flaked crab meat, perhaps. With a special Russian sauce."

Roast Beef, Medium! How unimaginative it sounds. How prosaic, and dry!
You cast the thought of it aside with the contempt that it deserves,
and you assume a fine air of the epicure as you order. There are set
before you things encased in pastry; things in frilly paper trousers;
things that prick the tongue; sauces that pique the palate. There are
strange vegetable garnishings, cunningly cut. This is not only Food.
These are Viands.

"Everything satisfactory?" inquires the insinuating Voice.

"Yes," you say, and take a hasty sip of water. That paprika has burned
your tongue. "Yes. Check, please."

You eye the score, appalled. "Look here! Aren't you over-charging!"

"Our regular price," and you catch a sneer beneath the smugness of the
Voice. "It is what every one pays, sir."

You reach deep, deep into your pocket, and you pay. And you rise and
go, full but not fed. And later as you take your fifth Moral Pepsin
Tablet you say Fool! and Fool! and Fool!