Apic. Who has thrust you into the kitchen, when you are such a salted herring (saperda)?
Ablig. My adverse fate.
Apic. Nay, what is quite clear,—it is thy sluggishness, carelessness, voracity, thy throat and thy stomach, thy degenerate and debased soul. Therefore must thou now run about with naked feet, half-clothed, in old torn garments which don’t cover you behind.
Ablig. What has my poverty got to do with you?
Apic. Nothing at all, and I should not like it to concern me. But to work! And outside of work let us have no more talk than necessary. Are my orders not sufficient? Nothing apparently can be enough for you in the way of closely laying down and insisting over and over again on what is to be done. Give me my cooking-trousers. I want to go out of doors, but I will soon be back. Give me also, please, the olive-crusher (tudicula), the badge of our art. This is my thunderbolt and trident.
Pist. Hallo, Abligurinus, place those jugs on the urn-table and wash this beef steadily, and give it a good rubbing in the basin.
Ablig. Have you any other orders to give? One commander is sufficient for one camp, but it does not seem to be sufficient for one kitchen. Do it all yourself. You are a sharper exactor of work than the master of the cook-shop himself. For the future I won’t call you Pistillarius (a pounder with the pestle), but a sharp sting (stimulus acutus).
Pist. Nay, rather call me Onocentron (the spur of asses). Cut up then this calf’s flesh on this flesh-board. Also powder the cheese so that we can sprinkle it over this dumpling.
Ablig. How? With the hand?
Pist. No, but with the grater. Pour a few drops of oil in from the cruse.