When a middle-westerner, thrown into the midst of this finical society, is visited by one of his kin, he is eternally apprehensive of being forever disgraced. But when that kin is a father who is also a Harvard man, the middle-westerner has every right to feel safe.

With this feeling of security tucked away in the back of his mind, our middle-western friend took his father to dine at the Copley-Plaza. The elder gentleman was certainly on to the ropes; he ordered steamed clams without batting an eye. A warm glow of pride enveloped his admiring son; his sire was acquitting himself nobly. But you know what pride goes before.

The father was faltering. He couldn't select the rest of the meal. Every moment that he hesitated the son instinctively knew that he was losing ground, but what to do about it? Finally the elder struck out in desperation, "I haven't had any corn on the cob for some time. How would that go with clams?"

Alas, all was forever lost. The waiter, a kindhearted man, could not smooth over this atrocity. He simply staggered back as if the father had bitten him in the nose, and blurted out violently, "My God, no!"