We were the only guests seated with Bou-Allem, for the son had not the honor of dining with his father, who always ate alone.
A species of salad-bowl, filled with something like pumpkin soup, was brought in, and I am very fond of that dish.
“What a fortunate thing,” I said to my wife, “Bou-Allem has guessed my taste; how I will do honor to his cook.”
My host, doubtlessly, understood the meaning of my remark, for, after offering us each a clumsy wooden spoon, he begged us to follow his example, and plunged his weapon in up to the wrist. We imitated him.
I soon took out an enormous spoonful, which I hastily lifted to my mouth; but I had scarce tasted it ere I exclaimed with a horrible grimace:
“Pouah! what can that be? My mouth is on fire.”
My wife withdrew the spoonful she had raised to her lips, but either her appetite or her curiosity induced her to taste it. She did so, but soon joined me in coughing. It was a regular pepper-pot.
While apparently vexed at this contretemps, our host swallowed enormous spoonfuls of the soup, and each time he stretched out his arm with an air of beatitude, intended to convey to us, “And yet how good it is.”
The soup-tureen was taken away almost empty.
“Bueno! bueno!” Bou-Allem exclaimed, pointing to a dish just placed before us.