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A businessman now risen to a vice-presidency tells me that in his apprentice days he used to cross deepest Arkansas as a mere traveling salesman, and that there were certain farms at which men from his company put up overnight, meals being included. Once, on a new route, he appeared at breakfast after a refreshing sleep in a feather bed to face a hardy array of buttery eggs, biscuits, apple pie, coffee, and fatback. This latter item was unfamiliar to him and from the looks of it he was damned if he would eat it. He knew his manners, however, and in passing over the fatback chatted with the lady of the house about how eating habits tend to be local, individual, and a matter of how one has been raised. He hoped she wouldn’t take it wrong that he, unused to consuming fatback, left it untouched on his plate.
The genial Arkansas matron nodded to this politely, agreeing that food is different all over the world. She then excused herself, flapped her copious apron, and retired from the kitchen. She returned with a double-barreled shotgun which she trained on the traveling salesman, with the grim remark, “Eat hit.” And eat hit he did. ‎· flames dancing orderly together
— Guy Davenport, The Anthropology of Table Manners ‎· flames dancing orderly together
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