Since entering Spain, Frank had learned to like this chocolate extremely well, and the little cakes were palatable, to say the least. Ephraim, who had been reared on pork and potatoes, found it no easy thing to accustom himself to the different cooking of different countries.
“Never saw a feller like yeou, Frank,” he grumbled, as Frank sipped the hot chocolate as if it were the most delicious and cooling beverage in the world. “Why, yeou kin eat the—the—what yer call it?—them things that burn a chap all aout inside.”
“Chorizos?”
“Yeh, them’s um. Why, clear kayann pepper ain’t in it a minute with them air things. A feller must hev a cast-iron stomach to keep um from burnin’ a hole right aout through.”
“You are like the professor about your food. Why, he has nearly starved since coming to Spain. He will not eat the puchero, which is the national dish here.”
“Wal, nobody kin tell what it’s made of.”
“Oh, yes; in the first place comes a good slice of boiled meat, around this are the wings of a fowl, pieces of sausage, vegetables and ham, and over all this are plenty of beans, such as the Spaniards call garbanoz. Sometimes there are other things——”
“By gum! yeou’re right; and what them other things be even yeou can’t tell. Oh, yeou kin eat it ef yeou want to, but I’d give all I’m wuth, abaout naow, to have one slappin’, heapin’ plate uv yaller-eyed beans, baked in hog fat.”
Ephraim rolled his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his imagination pictured the delights of such a dish.
Of a sudden, Frank gave a start, and then his hand reached out and touched Ephraim’s sleeve.