Then comes a humble voice from the dark: “Gif me dol’ an’ half. Gif me dol’ an’ half!”
“Go ’way, go ’way, Cherub! We don’t want you!” again we cry out.
“Gif me two cents! Gif me two cents!” comes from the cherub.
What a fall, my countrymen! At that juncture, her Royal Highness, the big landlady, swept through, her very presence clearing the premises, and peace was restored.
Then the dinner progressed through the invariable course of eggs and the delicious sidedish of fried bananas, until we came to the salad, which, I confess, has been my inspiration for many pages.
Now, here was a case where the wholly unexpected created a sensation which no amount of information, regarding the relative merits of the dish in question could produce. In a way, I rather expected to find in the West Indies all manner of curious fruits and vegetables, but I did not expect to eat immature palm-leaf fans with French dressing.
We had finished with our bananas, and were waiting with that good humour which characterises the third course of dinner, when the black heathen appeared, flanked by the entire retinue of kitchen retainers, the big creole hostess bringing up the rear, bearing in her hand a deep dish, in which she had prepared our salad. It was none less than the famous palm salad, about which so many travellers have told. We, too, must add our encomiums. It is taken from the centre of the palm head when the inner leaves are very young. It looked very much like fine cabbage as our hostess sliced it in long strips for salad; in colour it was creamy-white, and in flavour as delicate as a rose. It was so tender that it seemed to melt in the month, having none of the tough qualities of either lettuce or watercress or cabbage. The taste is something I could never describe, for it was a combination of such sweet flavours that even those who partook thereof were at a loss afterward to recall its peculiar delicacy.
The following day, we tried to buy some palm in the market and went from one group to another, asking for palm salad; but it had all been sold early in the morning, and, as I recall the experience, I am quite content that we were not successful in our morning’s marketing, for who knows but the dressing had something to do with the irresistible palm salad—or perchance even the surroundings—and who but those replete with the blood of many sunny races could give that touch?
Guava jelly made by the madame herself, black coffee from berries roasted freshly for us; ripe, mellow, richly flavoured mangoes, sweet honey oranges, and star-apples finished the dinner.
Do you think we noticed the red oilcloth table cover, the dingy lamp, and the rock-bottom sofa?