"Roast goose is a prime smeller," observed the Hon- orary Justice, breathing heavily.
"Don't say that, my dear Grigory Savvich. Duck or woodcock, those are the trumps! The bouquet of a goose lacks refinement, lacks delicacy. The richest odor is that of young onions when they just begin to get golden- brown, you know, and when the rascals fill the house with their sizzling. Another thing: when you come in, the table must be set, and when you sit do^ you tuck the napkin into your collar and you take your time about reaching for the vodka decanter. And mind you, you don't pour it into an ordinary wineglass, you don't treat the sweetheart that way! No. You pour it into something antique, made of silver, an heirloom, or into a quaint pot-bellied little glass with an inscription on it, some- thing like this: 'As you clink, you may think, monks also thus do drink.' And you don't gulp it down, straight off, but first you sigh, you rub your hands together, you gaze nonchalantly at the ceiling, and only then, slowly, you raise it to your lips, and at once sparks from your stomach flash through your whole body."
An expression of beatitude spread over the secretary's sugary face.
"Sparks," he repeated, screwing up his eyes. "And as soon as you have had your snifter, you turn to the appetizers.''
"See here," put in the Presiding Judge, raising his eyes to the secretary, 'be quiet! You've made me spoil two sheets!"
"Oh, I am so sorry, Pyotr Nikolaich! I will speak more quietly," murmured the secretary, and continued in a half whisper. ^VelJ, my dear Grigory Savvich, as I was about to say, when it comes to appetizers, one must know one's way about. The best appetizer is herring. You eat a bit of herring with onion and mustard sauce, and without waiting, my friend, while the sparks are still flying in the stomach, you help yourself to caviar, with lemon juice, if you prefer it that way, then you have a radish with salt, and another piece of herring. But I'll tell you what's better still, my friend: salted pink mushrooms, minced as fine as caviar and served with onion and olive oil . . . exquisite! But eel-pout liver— that's beyond anything!"
"Mm—yes . . ." agreed the Honorary Justice, screw- ing up his eyes in turn. "Another good appetizer is stewed white mushrooms."
"Yes, yes, with onion, you know, and bay leaf and other spices. You lift the lid of the dish, and the steam rises, a smell of mushrooms . . . sometimes it really brings tears to my eyes! Well, sir, the meat pie is brought in from the kitchen and at once, without delay, another glass of vodka is in order."
"Ivan Guryich!" exclaimed the Presiding Judge in a tearful voice. "You made me ruin the third sheet!"
"Deuce take him, he can't think of anything but food!" grumbled Milkin, the philosopher, with a look of contempt. "Is there nothing to live for but mushrooms and meat pie?"
"Well, sir, before the meat pie you down another one," the secretary repeated in a low tone. He was so carried away that, like a nightingale singing, he heard only his o^ voice. "The meat pie must make your mouth water, it must lie there before you, naked, shame- less, a temptation! You wink at it, you cut off a sizable slice, and you let your fingers just play over it, this way, out of excess of feeling. You eat, the butter drips from it like tears, and the filling is fat, juicy, rich, with eggs, giblets, onions. • • ."
The secretary rolled up his eyes and his mouth stretched to his ears. The Honorary Justice groaned and twiddled his fingers, apparently seeing the meat pie be- fore him.
"What the devil!" grumbled the Acting Justice, walk- ing over to the farther window.
"You eat only two slices, the third you keep for the shchi," the secretary went on like a man inspired. "And as soon as you've finished with the meat pie, have the shchi served, to keep the appetite at pitch. The shchi must be piping hot. But even better than shchi, with all that cabbage, is a borshch, prepared with sugar beets, Ukrainian style, you know the way, my friend, with ham and country sausages. It should be served with sour cream, of course, and a sprinkling of fresh parsley and dill. Another exceUent thing is a rassolnik,[3] with tripe in it and giblets and young kidneys, and then if you want a soup, the best thing is a vegetable soup, with carrots, fresh asparagus, a bit of cauliflower and whatever else is legitimate."
"Yes, it's an excellent thing," sighed the Presiding Judge, lifting his eyes from his papers, but at once he caught himself up and moaned, "For heaven's sake! If you go on like that, it'll be evening by the time I get through with my opinion! I've spoiled the fourth sheet!"
"Not a word more, not a word! I am very sorry!" the secretary apologized, and went on in a whisper, "Mter you have had your borshch or your soup, as you prefer, have the fish course served, and immediately, my friend. Of all the mute race, the finest is cmcian carp, fried in sour cream. But so that it shouldn't have any odor of silt, and to give it true delicacy, it must be kept alive in milk for twenty-four hours."
"A fish ring made of sterlet is good, too," put in the Honorary Justice, closing his eyes, and then suddenly, astonishingly, with a ferocious air he rushed from his seat, and roared at the Presiding Judge, "Pyotr Nik- olaich, you be done soon? I can't wait any longer, I just can't!"
"Just let me finish!"
"The deuce! I'll eat alone!"
The fat man waved his hand in despair, seized his hat and without a good-by ran out of the chamber. The secretary sighed, and bending over the ear of the As- sistant Prosecuting Attorney, proceeded in a low voice:
"Pike perch or carp with tomato and mushroom sauce isn't to be sneezed at, either. But fish doesn't really sat- isfy one, you'll admit, Stepan Frantzych: there's no sub- stance to it. The main thing in a dinner isn't the fish, no matter with what sauce, but the roast. Which are you fondest of?"
The Assistant Prosecuting Attorney made a sour face and said, sighing:
"Unfortunately, I can't share your transports: I have catarrh of the stomach."
"Tut, tut, my dear sir! Catarrh of the stomach is an invention of the doctors! It's a complaint that comes mostly from pride and free-thinking. Don't give it a thought. Suppose you don't feel like eating or you're even nauseated, just pay no attention, but go right ahead and eat. Say the roast is a snipe or two, and perhaps a partridge with it, or a brace of fat quail, then you'll for- get all about your catarrh, I give you my word of honor. And what about roast turkey? The bird should be a hen, with fat, juicy, white meat—the breast of a nymph. . . ."
"That should be tasty," murmured the Prosecuting Attorney, with a wistful smile. "Perhaps I would enjoy a slice of turkey."
"Good Lord! and what about duck? If you take a duckling, one that has had a taste of the ice during the first frost, and roast it, and be sure to put the potatoes, cut small, of course, in the dripping-pan too, so that they get browned to a tum and soaked with duck fat and—"