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Germany has its industry, England its stolidity, and America its ingenuity, but to France has fallen the priceless gift of arousing the world to laughter. While governments tremble and nations totter on the brink of war, a solemn conclave meets in Paris, not to decide the next premier nor to formulate new regulations to assist the birthrate, but--to select the best chef in France.
Herriot may wrangle with a recalcitrant Chamber, the Reich may hide away machine guns in every Rhine fortress--but ah, ciel! what a filet! What matters it that the debt must be paid? One must eat. And since one must eat, one might as well eat the best, and brave the indigestion that man is heir to.
A tired world pricks up its drooping ears when it hears news of this sort, and breathes a prayer of gratitude. In the midst of turmoil and confusion, there is, then, one nation that has a care for its food, one gathering of experts who say save the universe from dyspepsia. And hearing, the world turns again to its endless labors, confident that come what may, it will at least be well fed.
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