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Updated: May 16, 2025
One was a squint-eyed little Cockney that misplaced his aitches, but was always on hand when you wanted anything. Another was a tall, lanky Swede who was always "Yust coomin', sir." Then there was the bristly-haired Hungarian we called Goulash. They'd all seemed harmless enough before; but now we took to sizin' 'em up close.
In the narrow valleys the level places by the sides of streams have been utilized for encampments. Here stand in order wagons of a resting column and the goulash cannons shedding their fragrance far and wide, or the tireless ovens of a field bakery. Frequently barracks, hospital buildings, and shelters for men and animals have been built into the mountain sides.
It was, as a certain wit described it, a social goulash, for in addition to its regular habitues there were those few who came occasionally from the upper stratum of society in the belief that they were doing something devilish.
"What do you want with it?" "Lasagna." "Lasagna always lasagna if not goulash. Well, we tried that last night." She thought of that mildly humiliating moment when his face had wrinkled and cringed. The face had crinkled like an old newspaper in the muscles of a palm. She, his heroine of all these years, had been regarded with disapproval.
We shall fish in the Grand Canal at Venice and wear out our shoes prancing about Florence on a still hunt for old masters. "Last, and by no means least, we shall sample everything to eat from English muffins to Hungarian goulash." "I knew he'd end with something like that," sniffed Nora contemptuously. "I am surprised that he ended at all," laughed David.
Peters had not found that to be the case. In his hour of affliction it soothed him to read of Hungarian Goulash and escaloped brains, and to remember that he, too, the nut-and-grass eater of today, had once dwelt in Arcadia. The passage of the days, which had so sapped the stamina of the efficient Baxter, had had the opposite effect on Mr. Peters.
Course, I'm no cotillion leader, and about all the dancin' I ever done was at chowder parties or in the Coney Island halls; but who couldn't keep step to a tune like "Yip-I-Addy" played by a twelve-piece goulash orchestra, specially with such a crackerjack partner as Miss Vee was? Could we spiel together?
Then she whispered to Miss Gladiola Hungerschnitz, whereupon that young lady giggled her way over to the piano and began to knock its teeth out. The way Gladiola went after one of Beethoven's sonatas and slapped its ears was pitiful. Gladiola learned to injure a piano at a conservatory of music. She can take a Hungarian rhapsody and turn it into a goulash in about 32 bars.
From the fields, as we whirled into and out of layers of air, sharply, as one does in a motor, came now the odor of ripe straw, now a whiff of coffee from a "goulash cannon," steaming away behind its troop like the calliope in the old-fashioned circus, and now and then, from some thicket or across a clover field, the sharp, dismaying smell of rotting flesh.
I had had nothing since luncheon, and even the thirst following the South American goulash was gone. There was probably something to eat in the pantry, and if there was not, I was quite equal to going to the basement.
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