The Stranger - Max Frei [158]
The second time I went there was quite recently, to buy the tiny packet of gourmet cookies for Chuff. From the looks of it, Melifaro wasn’t exactly a regular here, either.
“I feel like a complete dolt,” he admitted, sitting down at the little table. “A completely rich dolt who does nothing except torment his belly with delicacies.”
“That’s why I was so eager to come here,” I remarked.
“To feel like a rich dolt?”
“No, so that you could learn your own worth!”
“You’ve overindulged in your Elixir, Mr. Bad Dream. I feed him, and he mocks me! Mysterious Soul, Child of the Barren Plains—what will become of you?”
The door opened. The proprietor of the establishment had favored us with a visit. It was the legendary Hunchback Itullo himself, famous for preparing all three hundred dishes on the menu single-handed. For that reason, the customers of this elegant restaurant were required to have the patience of a saint. It was sometimes two hours before your meal was served.
“Please don’t close the door,” I requested as Mr. Itullo entered. “It’s stuffy in here.”
“I told you you went overboard with the Elixir,” Melifaro muttered with a knowing wink. “Shortness of breath is the first sign of poisoning.”
“Oh, you’d be singing a different tune if you had to go around smothered under this blanket,” I cried, nodding with repugnance at my splendid Mantle.
“Mr. Itullo, one of the secrets of the universe has been revealed before my very eyes. Now we know it for a fact: Death sweats! Sometimes, anyway.”
Melifaro mimicked an expression of inspired ecstasy, and waved his arms around under the proprietor’s nose. Alas, our host was not the most good-natured fellow in Echo. He smiled grimly, and placed a weighty tome on the table. It looked like a first edition of the ancient Gutenberg Bible. This was the menu.
I gave Melifaro free rein, since he was paying. If he wanted to waste half an hour of his life trying to understand the difference between Cold Sleep and Heavenly Body, who was I to deprive him of his intellectual enjoyment?
“Good gentlemen, if you prefer a crystal clarity of taste, I would advise you to turn your attention to this page,” Mr. Itullo announced with a flourish.
“And what would you recommend for a person who is accustomed to partaking of horse jerky?” Melifaro asked snidely.
“I have just the thing. This is a marvelous stew, which I prepare from the heart of a winded racehorse according to an ancient recipe. A very expensive pleasure, since one must pay for the whole horse. You do know, gentlemen, how much a thoroughbred costs, as well as the cost of the jockey’s labor? Not to mention the seasoning.”
“How about it, Sir Max?” Melifaro asked solicitously. “I’ll grudge you nothing, you know.”
“No,” I mumbled. “I’m more interested in the ‘crystal clarity of taste,’ if it comes right down to it. And it’s beastly to torment animals like that.”
“Some Child of the Steppes,” snorted the amateur anthropologist.
Disappointed, Melifaro poked his nose in the menu again. The hunchback muttered anxiously as my friend turned the pages in rapture; I listened out of the corner of my ear as their exchange dragged on. I held my burning face up to the cool draft that escaped into the booth from the hall. And suddenly . . .
Sir Juffin Hully was absolutely right about my luck. I was devilishly lucky. A weak aroma, that same wonderful smell of delicious food that was so out of place in the morgue of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order, now tickled my nostrils again.
“That’s what I want,” I said triumphantly and pointed in the direction of the open door.
“What might that be, sir?” the host asked in alarm.
“Whatever that smell is. And that’s what you want, too, right?” I stared meaningfully at Melifaro, whose nose was already turning toward the door in wonder.
In just a fraction of a second, his dark eyes glittered with absolute comprehension.
“Yes, Mr. Itullo. We’ve made our decision. That smell is simply incomparable. What is that dish?