I’m currently reading, with some considerable pleasure, He Knew He Was Right. As two of his characters take the train to Turin, Trollope has this to say on the subject of railway cuisine:
“… the real disgrace of England is the railway sandwich, – that whited sepulchre, fair enough outside, but so meagre, poor, and spiritless within, such a thing of shreds and parings, such a dab of food, telling us that the poor bone whence it was scraped had been made utterly bare before it was sent into the kitchen for the soup pot.”
The novel was serialised from 1868 to 1869. 140 years, and still true truth. This, my friends, is the genius of the novelist.