"Next," said my friend, in an enthusiastic manner, "real and good Russian caviar, cold but not frozen, and so touched with lemon—only just so touched—as to be perfect. With this I think a little of the wine called Barsac should be drunk, and that cooled to about thirty-eight degrees—(Fahrenheit). After this a True Bouillon, and by a True Bouillon," said my friend with earnestness, "I mean a Bouillon that has long simmered in the pot and has been properly skimmed, and has been seasoned not only with the customary herbs but also with a suspicion of carrot and of onion, and a mere breath of tarragon."
"Right!" said his host. "Right!" nodding with real appreciation.
"And next," said my friend, halting in the street to continue his list, "I think there should be eggs."
"Right," said his host once more approvingly; "and shall we say——"
"No," interrupted my friend eagerly, "let me speak. Eggs sur-le-plat, frizzled to the exact degree."
"Just what I was about to suggest," answered his delighted entertainer, "and black pepper, I hope, ground large upon them in fresh granules from a proper wooden mill."
"Yes! Yes!" said my friend, now lyric, "and with sea salt in large crystals."
On saying which both of them fell into a sort of ecstasy which my friend broke by adding:
"Something quite light to follow ... preferably a sugar-cured Ham braised in white wine. Then, I think, spinach, not with the ham but after it; and that spinach cooked perfectly dry. We will conclude with some of the cheese called Brie. And for wine during all these latter courses we will drink the wine of Chinon: Chinon Grillé. What they call," he added slyly, "the Fausse maigre; for it is a wine thin at sight but full in the drinking of it."
"Good! Excellent!" said his host, clapping his hands together once with a gesture of finality. "And then after the lot you shall have coffee."