d be called fat. But observe her in the
Pschorrbraeu, mellowed by that superb malt, glorified by that consummate
kraut, and you will blush to think her more than plump.

I give you the Pschorrbraeu as the one best eating bet in Munich--and
not forgetting, by any means, the Luitpold, the Rathaus, the Odeon and
all the other gilded hells of victualry to northward. Imagine it: every
skein of sauerkraut is cooked three times before it reaches your plate!
Once in plain water, once in Rhine wine and once in melted snow! A dish,
in this benighted republic, for stevedores and yodlers, a coarse fee for
violoncellists, barbers and reporters for the _Staats-Zeitung_--but the
delight, at the Pschorrbraeu, of diplomats, the literati and doctors of
philosophy. I myself, eating it three times a day, to the accompaniment
of _schweinersrippen_ and _bonensalat_, have composed triolets in the
Norwegian language, a feat not matched by Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson himself.
And I once met an American medical man, in Munich to sit under the
learned Prof. Dr. Mueller, who ate no less than five portions of it
nightly, after his twelve long hours of clinical prodding and hacking.
He found it more nourishing, he told me, than pure albumen, and more
stimulating to the jaded nerves than laparotomy.

But to many Americans, of course, sauerkraut does not appeal.
Prejudiced against the dish by ridicule and innuendo, they are unable to
differentiate between good and bad, and so it's useless to send them to
this or that _ausschank_. Well, let them then go to the Pschorrbraeu and
order bifstek from the grill, at M. 1.20 the ration. There may be
tenderer and more savoury bifsteks in the world, bifsteks which sizzle
more seductively upon red hot plates, bifsteks with more proteids and
manganese in them, bifsteks more humane to ancient and hyperesthetic
teeth, bifsteks from nobler cattle, more deftly cut, more passionately
grilled, more romantically served--but not, believe me, for M. 1.20!
Think of it: a cut of tenderloin for M. 1.20--say, 28.85364273x cents!
For a side order of sauerkraut, forty pfennigs extra. For potatoes,
twenty-five pfennigs. For a _mass_ of _dunkle_, thirty-two pfennigs. In
all, M. 2.17--an odd mill or so more or less than fifty-two cents. A
square meal, perfectly cooked, washed down with perfect beer and served
perfectly by Fraeulein Tilde--and all for the price of a shampoo!

From the Pschorrbraeu, if the winds be fair, the beeriad tak