Ferriday did not take a sweet, but had a cheese instead, after an anxious debate with the waiter about the health of the Camembert and the decadence of the Roquefort. When this weighty matter was settled he returned to Kedzie:
“Now for something to drink. A little sherry and bitters to begin with, of course; and a—oh, umm, let me see—simple things are best; suppose we stick to champagne.” He called it “shah pine,” according to Kedzie's ear, but she hoped he meant shampane. She had always wanted to taste “wealthy water,” as Gilfoyle called it, but never called for it.
Kedzie was a trifle alarmed when Ferriday said: “I hope you don't like it sweet. It can't be too dry for me.”
“Me, either,” Kedzie assured him—and made a face implying that she always took it in the form of a powder.
Ferriday smiled benignly and said to the waiter: “You might bring us een boo-tay de Bollinger Numéro—er—katter—vang—kanz.” He knew that the French for ninety-five was four-twenties-fifteen, but the waiter could not understand till he placed his finger on the number with his best French accent. He saved himself from collapse by a stern post-dictum:
“Remember, it's the vintage of nineteen hundred. If you bring that loathsome eighteen ninety-three I'll have to crack the bottle over your head. You wouldn't want that, would you?”
“Non, m'zoo, oui, monzoo,” said the German waiter.
“Then we'll have some black coffee and a liqueur—a Curaçao, say, or a green Chartreuse, or a white mint. Which?”
Naturally Kedzie said the white mint, please.
With that Ferriday released the waiter, who hurried away, hoping that Ferriday's affectations included extravagant tips.