In “Del’S”

In the rich warm light, We sat one night At dear Delmonico’s. The menu there, With dishes rare, Hints gastronomic throes.

She scanned it down, ’Twixt smile and frown, And then expressed a wish To try some quails And Newburg snails―― The last a dainty dish.

New York her “town,” On which we frown In Philadelphia slow, And not a word I’ve ever heard Of eating snails, you know.

I said as much With just a touch Of thin-veiled irony, And then she said, With turn of head, While smiling quizzically:

“In Quaker town, Of great renown, They tell me they’re so slow, They don’t eat snail Because they fail To catch them. Is it so?”