Working-men, in the main, frequent these places, and greasy, dirty places they are, without one thing about them to cherish decency in a man or put self-respect into him.

Table-cloths and napkins are unknown.

A man eats in the midst of the debris left by his predecessor, and dribbles his own scraps about him and on the floor.

In rush times, in such places, I have positively waded through the muck and mess that covered the floor, and I have managed to eat because I was abominably hungry and capable of eating anything.
This seems to be the normal condition of the working-man, from the zest with which he addresses himself to the board.

Eating is a necessity, and there are no frills about it.