Mère Thomas wanted some of everything, she called for all the dishes that she saw, and she would say to the marquis:
“What’s that, my fine little fellow?”
“Poulet à la Marengo, madame.”
“My soul! how it’s disguised! Never mind, just pass me a wing.—And what’s that black stew over yonder?”
“A salmi of partridge aux truffes.”
“That must be heating; but give me a bit of your salmigondis aux truffes, I’ll take the chances.—and that big dish all covered over with sauce?”
“That’s a Sultane à la Chantilly.”
“A sultana! The dear boy! does he take us for Turks, I wonder! Just give me a taste of that too, so that I’ll know how those miserable dogs cook.”
“You’ll make yourself ill, Madame Thomas,” said La Thomassinière in an undertone, horrified to see his mother’s eyes grow brighter and brighter, and that she insisted on tasting all the wines as well as all the dishes.
“Get out, boy, I’ve got a stomach like an ostrich! Don’t you remember the bet I made one day with our cousin as kept the eating house? A fine man, he was! He died three year ago, poor Chahû!”