"Oh, holy bishop, with the help of the whip the cook could not choose but carry out the recipe."
"I must humbly declare that I am not the inventor of the way in which cranes must be prepared. I read it and learned it from the writings of Apicius, a celebrated Roman gourmand, who died, alas, many years ago, but his genius will live as long as cranes will fly."
"Let us have the recipe, father."
"Here it is: You wash and dress your crane, you then put it in an earthen pot, with water, salt and anise—"
"Well! that is just what my cook did; he washed the crane in water and salt—"
"But let me finish, barbarian, and you will soon enough see that the lazy ass stopped in the middle of the road instead of proceeding to the end. Now you must allow the water in which your crane is laid, to be boiled down one-half; thereupon you put it into a pan with olive oil broth flavored with wild marjoram and coriander; when your crane is done to the turn, pour in some wine mixed with honey and spices, a pinch of cumin, a taste of benzoin, a bit of rue and some caraway seed boiled in vinegar; pour in flour to give consistency to your sauce, which will then be of a handsome gold brown tint; you pour this over your crane after having placed the bird handsomely on a large platter with its round neck gently curled in a circle and holding in its long beak a spray of greens. And now I ask his glory, Prince Chram, I ask our illustrious friends here assembled—is there any comparison between a crane, prepared in such a style, and this shapeless, colorless thing that seems to be swimming in a bowl of greasy water?"
"If God, the Father, needed a cook, he would certainly choose you, sensuous bishop," said the Lion of Poitiers; "you would be no disgrace in paradise as the chief of the celestial kitchens."
At the impious jest the holy man made a grimace of rage, remembering only recently he had actually officiated as cook, but not in paradise—it was in Vagrery. He filled his cup and drained it at one draught, looking askance at the royal favorite.
"Come, Count Neroweg," said Spatachair, "there is mercy for every sin; some other day you will treat us to a choicer feast—and you will promise your wife to preside at the banquet."
"And by the faith of the Lion of Poitiers, I promise not to chuckle her under the chin too freely."