"How can you say so? It's perfect," said Mrs. Grobstock. "Salad is cook's speciality."
Manasseh tasted it critically. "On salads you must come to me," he said. "It does not want vinegar," was his verdict; "but a little more oil would certainly improve it. Oh, there is no one dresses salad like Hyman!"
Hyman's fame as the Kosher chef who superintended the big dinners at the London Tavern had reached Mrs. Grobstock's ears, and she was proportionately impressed.
"They say his pastry is so good," she observed, to be in the running.
"Yes," said Manasseh, "in kneading and puffing he stands alone."
"Our cook's tarts are quite as nice," said Grobstock roughly.
"We shall see," Manasseh replied guardedly. "Though, as for almond-cakes, Hyman himself makes none better than I get from my cousin, Barzillai of Fenchurch Street."
"Your cousin!" exclaimed Grobstock, "the West Indian merchant!"
"The same—formerly of Barbadoes. Still, your cook knows how to make coffee, though I can tell you do not get it direct from the plantation like the wardens of my Synagogue."
Grobstock was once again piqued with curiosity as to the Schnorrer's identity.