Ah, I'm hungry. He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.
What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygraff?
- Hellow, Bloom! Nosey Flynn said from his nook.
- Hello, Flynn
- How's things?
- Tiptop ... let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and ... let me see.
Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendents mustered and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up in a plumtree. Dignam's potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chef consumes the parts of honour. Ought to tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend Mr. MacTrigger. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.
- Have you a cheese sandwich?
- Yes, sir.
in honor of James Joyce, and Mr. Bloom's tumultuous travels around the city in a day