After a short look-in at his favourite bookshops, Shakespeare proceeded to another popular rendezvous--the middle aisle of St. Paul's. This was no sequestered haunt of studious folk, but a busy promenade where all sorts and conditions of men met freely, by appointment or otherwise: here one might encounter the down-at-heels adventurer, the "masterless man or penniless companion," side by side with the rubicund citizen, the opulent merchant, and the country gentleman whose talk was of hawks and hounds. Every condition of character, every variety of type, was here for Shakespeare's sharp eyes to scan: every fragment of conversation that fell upon his keen ears was noted down almost automatically. Friends and acquaintances many were here to be encountered: the popular writer received salutations on every hand, and those who might benefit by his well-known laxity of purse were not slow to avail themselves of it. Money frequently changed hands before Shakespeare passed out of the Cathedral. He had the customary careless generosity of stage-folk, and the fact that he was reputed to spend as much as he earned was doubtless largely due to his lavish freehandedness. Nobody could look into that kindly face and expect a _No_ to any asking.
But now it was striking twelve on every clock in the City, and he turned into Cheapside to the _Mermaid_, which stood between Friday Street and Bread Street. In those days, few except the upper classes dined at home. The "restaurant habit" of the twentieth century prevailed among middle-class townsfolk--especially those who were only lodgers, or visitors in London: and the cook-shops, ordinaries, and taverns laid themselves out to provide such hearty dinners as were necessary to people who had only two meals a day.
Upon the table to which Shakespeare sat down there were a stewed rabbit, a roast capon, a salmon stuck with cloves, and a piece of boiled beef; a jug of ale, a flagon of white wine (sack or canary) and a quart of claret. Honey was poured over the meat, and the wine-cups were half full of sugar. For the Elizabethans loved "sugar and spice and all things nice." Every dish was highly seasoned, highly sweetened, and spiced to what we should call a nauseating point. Cooked vegetables were but little used: these strong meat-eaters disdained them; potatoes were not yet indispensable articles of diet. Herbs, fruits, and roots, in fact, played a very secondary part in town fare, though poor folk in country places must needs make shift with these. The plates were of bread, the dishes of wood, and the wine was poured into small green clay pots.