The trucking strike has come and gone, and now it seems likely that no more than the usual number of people will starve this winter. But even at the height of the teamster troubles, no breath of famine touched the Copley-Plaza Hotel. Daily its massive menu continued to run the gamut of epicurcan delights. With this fact in mind, a Harvard Sophomore recently took a visiting aunt to dinner there.

But not without misgivings. The aunt was from the Middle West, you see. To her the glorious traditions of the Copley meant naught. Nevertheless she was not to be caught napping. Without batting an eye she ordered steamed clams for the opening round. A warm glow of pride enveloped her admiring nephew; the old lady was acquitting herself nobly. She knew the ropes. So he relaxed. But you know what pride goes before.

At the gong for the next round, she was winded. In fact, she was punch-drunk. She couldn't seem to select the rest of the meal. Every moment that she hesitated the nephew knew that she 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 what go with clams?"

The waiter, whose patient pencil had been long poised, could not smooth over this atrocity. Generations of Copley breeding fell from him; he staggered back as if the aunt had bitten him in the nose and blurted out violently: "My God no!"