We commenced our dinner by coffee drinking. There is certainly but one way of making coffee—that in vogue in these regions. Let my readers attend to this receipt, and try it.
On the fire is a pot of boiling water. A small saucepan, with a long handle, just big enough to hold a coffee cup of water is taken (N.B. a small Turkish coffee cup). Into it is thrown a teaspoonful of coffee, freshly ground and freshly roasted, also a lump of sugar.
Boiling water is poured on it till the saucepan is full. Then the saucepan is put on the fire. It boils over, is taken off for ten seconds. Three times this operation is repeated, then the thick fluid is poured into the cup; and delicious it will be found to be, if you once get over your prejudice against grounds. We and all the other men squatted on our rugs round the blazing fire and roasting sheep, and commenced our dinner, the women, according to Eastern fashion, standing or sitting in the corners of the room, watching us, and waiting till we had done, when they would come in for their share of the feast. The old crone was a favoured person; a bone was occasionally thrown to her by the host while we dined, which she seized in her skeleton hands, and sucked greedily with her toothless chaps.
There was a knowing old dog by her who knew, and took a mean advantage of, her blindness and weakness, for he managed occasionally to steal a succulent morsel out of her very hands.
While the sheep was roasting we were obliged to eat little delicacies, intended, I suppose, to tickle our appetites. Our host would take "patoulis" from the ashes of the fire (a sort of rancid, heavy dripping cake), smear them thickly with honey, then on the top of all scatter large lumps of goat's-milk cheese, and hand them to us in a pressing way that permitted no refusal.
We were forced to eat so many of these that the roasting sheep, of which we knew we would have to partake freely, turned before our eyes like a horrid nightmare. Meanwhile Nik Leka looked on benignantly as he put away the cakes in a way that surprised us.
We washed down all this with a very greasy sort of mead. Though of a fairly omnibibant nature, we could hardly stomach this. At last we came to the "misch i pickun," as the roasted sheep is called. Our host cut it up with his yataghan, then proceeded to tear the flesh with his fingers. We were well looked after, and treated as honoured guests. The Arnaut would pull off some rich lump of fat, enclosing a kidney, and hand it to one of us. The meat was really very good; all its richness is kept in by this way of cooking, but probably a delicate-stomached person might not relish the idea of devouring lumps of tepid mutton fat with his fingers, without bread or salt.
I think I did very creditably at this meal. I know Jones, who finally collapsed and could do no more, looked at me with amazement. Fat and lean and crackling followed each other. Our host and Nik Leka did not leave me alone for a moment. Now and then one of them would tear off a large shred of meat, and stuff it into our saddle-bag for the next day's provision.
At last we were as replete as Homer's heroes. Indeed the whole scene carried one back to those days. The besiegers of Troy lit the fire of logs, and roasted the beasts whole, and ate till they could not stand or talk, just as did these no less savage Arnauts. Just like these too, when the banquet was over, did they show their gratitude to their host, and appreciation of his hospitality, by frequent hiccups and belchings.
The women and dogs gobbled up the remains in their corner, as we smoked our cigarettes and toasted ourselves in old raki.