We are pleased to present you with a classic edition of our Gluttony column, which originated in the English gentleman's broadsheet The Daily Awl and Crescent. While records of the column's date were destroyed during a bombing raid in the war, historians estimate that this piece was written at some point during the second decade of the twentieth century. Lord Featherstonehaugh, who regularly composed the Gluttony column for the paper, perished in a bizarre shooting party accident in 1937.

What with the hectic pace of modern living one always seeks out the latest innovation by which one might manage a few spare minutes. Thus, when I took the Telegraph the other morning and was made aware of the recent American invention of bagged tea, I immediately instructed my manservant to obtain said item. As is his wont, he balked.

"I would not advise it, sir," he said.

"Why the devil not? It sounds like right wheeze!" I replied.

"You will find, sir, that tea which has been subjected to this sort of manufacture is inferior in all ways to naturally steeped tea straight from the container. The time saved will in no way make up for the lack of quality in your drink."

"Dash it, man," I said. "Order me that tea."

"Very well, sir," he nodded. I find that persistence and authority are often the finest quivers in the old arsenal when one needs to deal with an intemperate valet.

The item procured, I insisted on performing the process myself. I am sorry to admit that I soon found myself in a spot of bother and was forced to avail myself of my man's assistance.

"Rutherford," I said, "I've a bit of a quandary with this 'tea bag.'"

"Indeed, sir."

"The packaging is deuced difficult to open."

"That is not unexpected, sir. You will recall," he said gently, "that I suggested the whole thing was unwise."

"I recall quite well, Rutherford. Just open the bloody thing, will you?"

"Very well, sir."

Say what you will about Rutherford, he is always prepared to get the job done no matter his personal thoughts on the issue. The package opened and its innards obtained, it was soon submerged in a regulation-size mug of hot water.

"Rutherford," I said.

"Yes, sir?"

"What is this odd trickle emerging from my bag of tea?"

"That is the way this contraption operates, sir. Rather than immediately combine itself with the water, the tea slowly emerges from its casing," he said with a shudder.

"It's damned distasteful, if you ask me. It looks like it's micturating into my cup."

"Quite so, sir."

We were suddenly interrupted by a visit from my Aunt Alice, of whom I've spoken before. While she is often difficult to deal with, I fixed her with the most devoted attention a nephew should provide. Within half an hour-and my reluctant agreement to judge the turnip contest at her fall fete-she had been dispatched, and I was free to taste my tea.

"Rutherford!" I bellowed. "This is awful. It tastes much pointier than it should."

"Indeed, sir. I might suggest that perhaps the acrid flavor which you are currently experiencing is a result of the length of time the bag has spent steeping."

"Well, obviously, man! But what to do about it?"

"I have taken the liberty, sir, of preparing a proper pot of the finest Darjeeling. Perhaps you might enjoy that now?"

"Yes, please, Rutherford," I said in the voice of a man who knows that he has once again been proven wrong by the superior intellect of his valet.

"And, Rutherford," I added, "please dispose of the rest of those terrible tea bags."

"That action has already been performed, sir," he said with the trace of a smile.