New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1919-06-29
An Adventure in
Practical Psychol-
ogy ---- Cooking
Food to Order
~ VEN the Greenwich Villag-

live on art and poetry
alone; that no matter how fetching
their chintzes and their walls, or
how soul satisfying their smocks
and Dutch cuts, the spectacle of a
bare cupboard was enough to take
the JOY out of living, even in b.
hemia. A generation ago, perhaps,
genius could have survived plain
living and high thinking. But now
adays it seems to need some beef
steak propping.
No one is going to accuse the
lady of Washington Square of being
a domestic person. If she has any
hankering instinct in this direction
it is promptly squelched before it
becomes obstreperous. What with
syndicalism, sovietism, bolshevism
and shimmyism, her hands are too
full to waste time on the soul kill
ing occupation of boiling potatoes.
The gentleman of Washington
Square has much more ambition in
the culinary line, but his art and
his stomach suffer considerably if he
has to devote himself to brewing
his own tea and to broiling his
steaks.
Occasionally there enters into
the world of trade a glimmer Of
psychology, and it occurred to one
man that if he could establish
delicatessen store with a kitchen
behind the scenes, where things
could be cooked to order, he would
make no end of hit with the Viii
layers.
ildt AIldiI was lis pl1C
: He runs his novel establishment
in the neighborhood of the Hudson
Tube station on Sixth Avenue, and
every day he has the choicest assert
ment of customers that ever congre-
gated in one small store - long,
lanky, soulful looking creatures,
and small, ethereal ones; waistless,
hatless, shocked types and pretty
Dutch-cut cute ones!
When a Tribune reporter drifted
in to look things over, lol there
stood chestnut-locked brown-eyed
creature, who seemed ready to grow
wings, but who, in reality, was
calmly buying-dill pickles. 1t was
rude shock. That one so fair
should be addicted to pickles!
When she finally minced daintily
out into the street with her pickles
concealed beneath her voluminous
cape the man behind the counter
waxed discursive:
Huh. That's nothing. never
sknew such taste in food as these
Villagers have. Believe me, we have
to specialize in queer looking bottles
to keep up with them. 1t keeps
US busy importing. If it isn't pickles
it's Russian caviar-with emphasis
on the Russian. Also anchovy paste
and olive oil and chow-chow and
anything that has foreign smack
to it. But we're making a hit with
home-growns, too. Why, we stew
their prunes for 'em and boil their
eggs and roast their chicken and
fry their bacon and broil their steak
and mix their salads and bake their
pies (the kind that mother used to
make) and generally make ourselves
useful.
"All you gotta do is ring us up
to boil your egg for you-three min
utes Or five. In twinkling you're
eating it, even if it has to climb FIVE
fights of spider-webbed stairs to
reach you. Next thing, we're going
to make your tea and coffee, but
we're afraid of being too useful
the artist fellows will next be
asking US to paint their pictures for
them and save them that much
trouble.
We're the props when they put
20 their parties. You should see US
rigging up the grub for Green
w'ch Village party! What we don't
10 with salad mixtures and savories
and homemade jellies isn't worth
mentioning. Soft drinks are on our
.eaoy-to-eat-and-drink menu, too.
we car give you q roast chicken
dinner with accompaniments for 50