"William," said George Augustus Sala to the old waiter at the "Cheshire Cheese," "I've had nothing fit to eat for three months; get me a point steak, for God's sake!" The great lauder of foreign cookery had only that day returned from a special mission to France, to "write up" the works of the _cordon bleu_ for the benefit of us benighted Englishmen. No man in the wide wide world knew so much, or could write so much, on the subject of and in praise of the fairy "_Ala_," as George Sala; and probably no man in the wide wide world so little appreciated her efforts. But how has it come about that the fairy "_Ala_" has gained such headway in this island of ours? The answer must commence another chapter. CHAPTER VII DINNER (_continued_) "It is the cause!" Imitation--Dear Lady Thistlebrain--Try it on the dog--Criminality of the English Caterer--The stove, the stink, the steamer--Roasting _v._ Baking--False Economy--Dirty ovens--Frills and fingers--Time over Dinner--A long-winded Bishop--Corned beef. Now for the cause, alluded to at the end of the last chapter. _Imprimis_, the French invasion is due to the universal craze for imitation, which may be the sincerest form of flattery, but which frequently leads to bad results. For years past the fair sex of Great Britain have been looking to Paris for fashion in dress, as well as in cookery; whilst the other sex have long held the mistaken notion that "they manage things better in France." The idea that France is the only country capable of clothing the outer and the inner man, artistically, has taken deep root. Thus, if the Duchess of Dulverton import, regardless of expense, a divine creation in bonnets from the Rue de Castiglione, and air the same in church, it is good odds that little Mrs. Stokes, of the Talbot Road, Bayswater, will have had the _chapeau_ copied, at about one-twentieth of the original cost, by the next Sabbath day. Dear Lady Thistlebrain, who has _such_ taste (since she quitted the family mangle in Little Toke Street, Lambeth, for two mansions, a castle, and a deer park), and with whom money is no object, pays her _chef_ the wages of an ambassador, and everybody raves over her dinners. Mrs. Potter of Maida Vale sets her "gal" (who studied higher gastronomy, together with the piano, and flower-painting on satin, at the Board School) to work on similar _menus_--with, on the whole, disastrous results. The London society and fashion journals encourage this snobbish idea by quoting _menus_, most of them ridiculous. Amongst the middle classes the custom of giving dinner parties at hotels has for some time past been spreading, partly to save trouble, and partly to save the brain of the domestic cook; so that instead of sitting down to a plain dinner, with, maybe, an _entrée_ or two sent in by the local confectioner--around the