The kitchens of the Metropole and Imperial hotels yielded up to the Irish Republic
their armory of fillet, brisket, flank. Though destined for more palatable tongues,
it was pressed to service in an Irish stew and served on fine bone china
with bread that turned to powder in their mouths. Brioche, artichokes, tomatoes
tasted for the first time: staunch and sweet on Monday, but by Thursday,
they had overstretched to spill their livid plenitude on the fires of Sackville Street.