The Stranger - Max Frei [159]
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, gentlemen,” the hunchback said, shaking his head vigorously. “And it’s not on the menu, so don’t bother looking for it.”
“Why isn’t it?” Melifaro asked, leaping out of his chair.
“The fact is that it’s a very expensive dish.”
“Excellent!” I exclaimed. “That’s just what we had in mind—something a bit more pricey. Isn’t that right, my poor friend?”
“Yes, my insatiable foe!” Melifaro didn’t even bat an eyelid.
“Nevertheless, gentlemen, it can’t be done.” Our host was unyielding. “It takes more than two dozen days to prepare such a dish. I have several old customers who order it in advance. I am willing to accommodate you, but your order will only be ready in . . . I don’t quite know how many days, since some of the ingredients are supplied by merchants all the way from Arvarox. I can put you on the waiting list and let you know when it will be ready. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Fine,” I said, with a dismissive wave. “In that case bring me something with a ‘crystal clarity of taste.’ We’ll discover your skills by beginning at the beginning. But please, no horse’s hearts. Apart from that, we are placing ourselves in your hands.”
“I’d recommend that you consider numbers 37 and 89, gentlemen.” The hunchback clearly felt that a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “The wait will be less than an hour. These are true culinary masterpieces! What would you like to drink in anticipation of the meal?”
“Kamra!” I almost shouted.
“Kamra? Before the meal? But your taste buds, your palate—”
“Yes, we’ll need a jug of water, too, to rinse the palate before the most significant culinary event of our lives. And don’t shut the door, please. It’s hot in here!”
When we were at last alone, Melifaro launched right in.
“That smell is the one in our morgue, a hole in the heavens above your long nose, Max! Am I right?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. My whole life I’ve wanted a larger nose. One like Juffin’s, at the very least.”
“You have terrible taste. Your nose is the very height of fashion.”
“Well, at least it’s good for something. Send a call to Kofa. Unfortunately, I grow tired too fast using Silent Speech. Let’s hear what our Mouthful-Earful thinks about all this.”
“Does it really tire you?” Melifaro asked in surprise.
“Try to imagine. Have you ever tried learning a foreign language?”
“I’ll say. My papa was always forcing us to memorize the mumbo-jumbo of some idiots who didn’t have the sense to learn normal human speech.”
“Well, then you know how it is for me.”
“I understand. Only it’s so funny to hear you try.”
“Come on, call Kofa, Mr. Ninth Volume of the Encyclopedia of Manga Melifaro. Or I may burst from curiosity.”
“All right, I’m sending the call,” Melifaro’s face assumed an intelligent expression to let me know that he had made contact with our Master Eavesdropper.
In a few minutes, two jugs were served to us, one containing kamra and one with water. Melifaro’s face melted into a more human expression again. As a matter of fact, the poor fellow was laboring under an overload of information and all the implications thereof. By the time the gloomy lady who was serving us had departed, Melifaro looked as though he was on the verge of fainting.
“Your nose is really something!” he blurted out. “Sir Kofa is almost certain that he knows the dish in question: King Banjee Pâté. The most outlandish rumors have been circulating about it for a long time now. Even in the Epoch of Orders not every chef had it in his power to make a dish like that. The problem is that rustling up King Banjee requires magic of no less than the tenth or eleventh degree. But Itullo is the most law-abiding citizen in Echo. He’s never been caught so much as dabbling in the second degree since the Code was written! So there you have it. According to Kofa, the whole King Banjee business is shrouded in mystery. It isn’t anywhere on the menu. Sir Kofa himself tried ordering the infamous pâté several times, but he got some vague promise that they would ‘put him on the list.’ Sound familiar?