Waitress (with a sad foreknowledge that she is casting pearls before a swine). We have "Flageolet Fritters and Cabbage," or "Parsnip Pie with grilled Potatoes"—both very nice.
The Neoph. (braving the unknown). I'll have some of this—er—"Cinghalese Stew." [He awaits the result in trepidation.
Customer (behind, dictating his bill). "What have I had?" Let me see. Braised turnip and bread sauce, fricassée of carrot and artichoke, tomato omelette, a jam roll, and a bottle of zoedone.
[The Waitress makes out his voucher accordingly, and awards it to him, with a bright smile of approval and encouragement.
The Enth. V. (who has overheard). A most excellent selection! That's a man, Sir, who knows how to live! Ha! here's my porridge. Will you give me some brown sugar with it, please? And—(to the N.)—there's your stew—smells good, eh?
The Neoph. (tasting it, and finding it a cunning compound of curried bananas and chicory). I—I like the smell—excellent indeed!
[He attacks the stew warily.
The Enth. Veg. (disposing of his porridge). There! Now I shall have some lentils and spinach with parsley sauce, and a Welsh rarebit to follow—and I think that will about do me. Will you—oh, you haven't finished your stew yet! By the way, what will you drink? I don't often indulge in champagne in the middle of the day; but it's my birthday—so I think we might venture on a bottle between us, eh?
The Neoph. (in whom the Cinghalese Stew has excited a lively thirst). By all means. I suppose you know the brands here?