Poissons.
Soles a la Pierre Tumulaire.
Saumon, Sauce Fossoyeur.
Entrees.
Ris de Veau au Jus Mortuaire.
Pajasky de Volaille en Cercueil.
Releves.
Quartier d'Agneau Roti, Sauce Cadavre.
Boeuf Braisé aux Revenants.
Legumes.
Pommes de Terre Meurtriere.
Petits Pois Nouveaux a la Suicide.
Rotis.
Canetons Rotis a la memoire de la Fin de Touts.
Salade des Espoirs Evanouis.
Entremets.
Savarin au Cimetiere.
Parfait Woking.
Gateaux Kensal Green.
My knowledge of French is, in a manner of speaking, limited. It was only after some moments' consideration that the monstrous nature of the thing began to dawn on me. Was it possible that we were supposed to eat food prepared in such fashions as the menu suggested? What connection could sweetbreads have with "mortuary juice," and potatoes with murder? What were "tombstone" soles, and "gravedigger" sauce? The allusions to "Woking" and "Kensal Green," at a dinner-table, in association with sweets, was enough to destroy one's appetite entirely. Was the intention to hint that the dishes so named would send us there? One shuddered at the thought.
I had not yet succeeded in realising the full horror of this final outrage when one of the gruesomely-attired figures which it had been Gardiner's humour to provide as waiters planted itself at my side. A voice issued from one of the slits in the scarlet envelope, deep, harsh, threatening, addressing me as if presenting a pistol at my head, and demanding my money or my life.
"Death's Head Soup, or Cream of Undertakers?"
The question so startled me that I nearly jumped out of my chair. What could the creature mean? A glance at the card which I was holding showed that the reference was to the first two dishes on the bill of fare. He was asking which of them I wished to have. I felt as if I were on the point of choking. The same inquiry, uttered, as it seemed to me, in the same sinister accents, came in a chorus from all round the table.