"But we want the cutlets, like those the Effendi's cook showed you how to make."
"Yes, that is it, Pasha; that is what the Effendi's cook showed me."
"But cutlets are meat," we persisted.
"Yes, Pasha; but that is cutlets without the meat."
This reasoning was incontrovertible. We tried to fill up with dates and rice and went to bed crestfallen and hungry. The next day we returned to the charge. I undertook to show Arten how to cook cutlets, though I had not the smallest idea myself how it ought to be done. I had an inkling, however, that egg and breadcrumbs were in it somehow.
"Arten," I said, "cut the meat as the Effendi's cook did for cutlets." Arten obeyed.
"Make egg and breadcrumb," I said. He did this also.
"Now do with it what the Effendi's cook did," I said. Arten smeared the meat with it. I began to see light and breathed more freely, but I had still one venture to make.
"Now cook the meat as the Effendi's cook did," I said.
I held my breath; for all I knew they might now have to be boiled in a saucepan or toasted on a fork. But Arten appeared to know what he was doing. He took a frying-pan and fried them in fat. A glow of satisfaction crept all over me as I watched them beginning to resemble the finished appearance I was acquainted with. When they were actually on a dish, I said loftily:—