It is an age long past. A time before our grandfathers' time. In a capital of eastern Europe a level of elegance and grace exists, unknown to dwellers in western lands. Dashing officers and graceful ladies dance the hüpisch. Gleaming horses draw elegant carriages. Everywhere is heard the clink of glasses and the cry "Wupski!" as the genteel and decorous citizens celebrate the carrot-wine vintage. Scholars and artists collide in the streets. Trade prospers. Culture flourishes. Time stands still.
It is within this happy, carefree moment in history that the first recorded ancestor of an illustrious family descends from a remote mountain village to seek his fortune in the great city. Humbertus Baolungpinski, a self-taught chef and genius, opens a modest eating house, the Transylvanian Mushroom - We Never Close. Baolungpinski works hard, and soon becomes a celebrated restaurateur, famous for his foot-long borgelnuskies.
Generations later, a proud tradition continues. On the edge of the city of Baconburg, a descendant of the first Baolungpinski, Gus Bowlingpin, operates an establishment cherished by gourmets, the Deadly Nightshade Diner - We Never Close.
Unprepossessing, simple, a bit filthy, this great restaurant caters to a clientele which knows that a really superior rice pudding is worth enduring a little inconvenience - and is not stampeded by the germ theory and other unworthy ideas of a corrupt and cynical age.
- Daniel Pinkwater, The Snarkout Boys and the Baconburg Horror, p.536-7 in 4 Fantastic Novels
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