Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [24]
Although he wasn't cold, he wrapped himself in a thick camel-hair blanket. He gazed up at the patterns on the ceiling, then, wearying of this, reached out, without rising, towards his bookshelf, and from among his numerous volumes of Aristocratic Families and the Almanach de Gotha, pulled out Volume XIV, by Iván Nagy, on the families of Hungary. He thumbed through it listlessly.
The book provided no surprises. He already knew its every detail, every letter, inside out. The volume soon fell from his hands, and Ákos began to ruminate:
“Vanilla noodles. What exactly can they be? I've never tried them, never even seen them. I've no idea how they might taste. Vanilla I'm fond of. That strange, almost exciting smell. Must be rather nice to have the smell tickle the nose while the taste flatters the tongue. I wonder if they serve the yellowish noodles with that black African spice sprinkled on top? I've only ever glimpsed the name, in passing, between the curd dumplings, fruit sorbets and hazelnut gateaux. As if I'd dreamed it somewhere. Still can't get it out of my mind.”
He knitted his brow and tried to banish these silly, demeaning thoughts from his mind.
“Skylark's a good cook. That's undeniable. At least, everyone says so. Of course she is. And not just good, first-rate. They can't find words enough to praise her cooking. In the old days, when we still invited folk for dinner, they made quite a song and dance about it. Even that scoundrel Géza Cifra. Yes, even him. It's true her methods are...unusual. She never uses paprika, for example, or pepper, or any other spices. And she's rather sparing with fat as well. She's economical, that's all. And quite right, too. Our modest savings won't last for ever and she can't, mustn't, touch her dowry. I simply wouldn't let her. Certainly not. Besides, heavy food is bad for you. Nice light French cuisine, that's what we like.”
He sat up and sniffed the air around him. Strange. The smells of the restaurant still lingered about his nose, stubbornly, unavoidably, assertively. That stuffy fragrance, fragrant stuffiness, that cruel, aromatic combination of caraway, onions fried in fat, and the pleasantly bitter hop breath of beer. He leaned back on his pillow.
“Noix de veau. Another puzzle. One imagines walnut segments, sweet and oily, but that's not what it is. Soft, juicy pieces of tender meat that melt at once in the mouth. Not to be sneezed at. Especially after one of those tempting hors d'oeuvres on the menu. Crayfish bisque, caviar à la russe. Absurd, macabre names. Scrambled eggs with chicken livers, pike in white wine, brains in browned butter. Enough. Enough of this stuff and nonsense.”
He straightened his pillow and sought a more comfortable position.
“Skylark has a weak stomach, poor thing. Although she's plump, she can't take heavy food. And she's often sick. It's in all our interests to eat sensibly. And just think of her wonderfully nourishing fricassees and risottos. Especially the risottos. Ah, the risottos. And her pale sponge fingers. And semolina puddings. No one could say she starved us. Not in the least. If only they served food like that in restaurants. Actually, it wasn't so bad there...but at home. Yes, good home cooking.”
Ákos had grown tired. He shut his eyes and surrendered himself to whatever came to mind.
“Yesterday, for example. What did we have yesterday? Consommé, chicken risotto, bread-and-butter pudding. I remember exactly. Nothing more, nothing better. Now Weisz and Partner, he had something else. Goulash, that's what it was. Delicious, to be sure: rich, blood-red goulash soup with hot paprika from Szeged, the liquid dripping from his steaming potatoes. How I adored that in my younger days, when poor Mama was still alive. Goulash soup, veal and beef stew–God only knows when I had them last. I never dared ask for things like that. Out of consideration for