GREAT BRITAIN: Tamed to the Palate

"Wot's it matter wevver they knows or not?" queried a blood-stained London butcher. "If yer finds yer 'usband squeamish, don't tell 'im, that's all."

"How revolting," said a fastidious diner at a West End hotel. "I simply couldn't stomach horseflesh." And with that she went on spreading her toast with the savory pâté maison which only the trade called by its proper name: processed horse.

Like the "veal" on another menu, the "Hungarian goulash" around the corner, the prime roasts and shepherd's pies at still other restaurants, the lady's pate had been, a few days earlier, a long-legged foal romping after a...

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