I dropped into the Quod for a quick lunch ... I find a starter and a pud (with tapwater) set me up nicely for an afternoon; they don't give me that terribly heavy feeling in the legs which I suffer after a main course and a glass of wine.
It was full of youthful Americans (this was the second week of term).
I knew they were Americans, even before I tuned into their idiolect, because of their garb. I think you might know what I mean about their clothing: elaborately casual, in a way that says "I'm not pompous; you won't catch me formally dressed", but also says "I'm sure you are not so ill-bred as to fail to observe how expensively I'm dressed."
Some of them may well have been descended (collaterally, of course) from the Oover who so memorably brought his national taciturnity to the last Dinner of the Junta during that disastrously parthenolatreutic Eights Week.
Their youthful charm greatly enhanced the Foie Gras and the Fig Pavlova with which I restored my aged frame.
I wonder if they've found out where the river is yet.