“What did you tell him?” I asked, grinning.
“I told him to go to hell.”
“Did he?”
“He did not. He hovered around the table, sputtering and telling me what I should eat. I wanted some tomato catsup on my steak, and what do you think he told me? He told me that he wasn’t allowed to bring tomato catsup for steaks. I asked him why not, and he said because it would hurt the chef’s feelings. The chef made such a marvelous sauce; it was world-famous. Putting catsup on steaks was only done by the very crude persons who had no palate.”
“And then?”
“Then,” Bertha said, “I pushed back my chair and told him if the chef was so damned solicitous about the steak, he could eat it. And to present the check to his chef along with the steak.”
“And you walked out?”
“Well,” Bertha said, “they stopped me before I got to the door. There was quite a fuss. I finally compromised by paying for the part of the dinner I’d eaten. But I was damned if I’d pay for the steak. I told them that belonged to the chef.”
“Then what?”
“That was all. I started back here, but stopped in at a little restaurant up on the corner, and really enjoyed myself.”