Finally, however, we decided on what we euphemistically dubbed a chocolate soufflé. First of all we spread a handkerchief flat on the table, and sprinkled over it a little cornflour. We then took a packet of cocoa.
“How much shall I upset?” I asked.
We read the directions on the outside, but on the subject of chocolate soufflés the manufacturers were sadly reticent. So as there was no clear guide, we used the entire packet.
The mixture now seemed to demand some moisture, so we poured a little warm water on it, and tried to knead it into a dough. But it did not work: a brown paste adhered to our fingers; nothing more.
“It won’t bind,” said Barron. “We must put some butter with it.”
“We’ve got no butter.”
“Oh, well, then, try some beef-dripping.”
So the next ingredient was half a tin of dripping, and as regards appearances it certainly had excellent results. A few minutes’ hard kneading produced an admirable dough. But when we sucked our fingers afterwards, the flavour was anything but that of chocolate. It had a thick and greasy taste.
“Alec,” said Hodges, “this dripping’s ruined it.”
“Your idea,” I said cheerfully.