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December 18, 2003
OGIC: Fortune cooooookie
"The little maid came into the silent room. I looked at her stocky young body, and her butter-colored hair, and noticed her odd pale voluptuous mouth before I said, 'Mademoiselle, I shall drink an apéritif. Have you by any chance--''Let me suggest,' she interrupted firmly, 'our special dry sherry. It is chosen in Spain for Monsieur Paul.'
And before I could agree she was gone, discreet and smooth.
She's a funny one, I thought, and waited in a pleasant warm tiredness for the wine.
It was good. I smiled approval at her, and she lowered her eyes, and then looked searchingly at me again. I realized suddenly that in the land of trained nonchalant waiters I was to be served by a small waitress who took her duties seriously. I felt much amused, and matched her solemn searching gaze.
'Today, Madame, you may eat shoulder of lamb in the English style, with baked potatoes, green beans, and a sweet.'
My heart sank. I felt dismal, and hot and weary, and still grateful for the sherry.
But she was almost grinning at me, her lips curved triumphantly, and her eyes less palely blue.
'Oh, in that case a trout, of course--a truite au bleu as only Monsieur Paul can prepare it!'
She glanced hurriedly at my face, and hastened on. 'With the trout, one or two young potatoes--oh, very delicately boiled,' she added before I could protest, 'very light.'
I felt better. I agreed. 'Perhaps a leaf or two of salad after the fish,' I suggested. She almost snapped at me. 'Of course, of course! And naturally our hors d'oeuvres to commence.' She started away.
'No!' I called, feeling that I must assert myself now or be forever lost. 'No!'
She turned back, and spoke to me very gently. 'But Madame has never tasted our hors d'oeuvres. I am sure that Madame will be pleased. They are our specialty, made by Monsieur Paul himself. I am sure,' and she looked reproachfully at me, her mouth tender and sad, 'I am sure that Madame would be very much pleased.'
I smiled weakly at her, and she left. A little cloud of hurt gentleness seemed to hang in the air where she has last stood.
I comforted myself with sherry, feeling increasing irritation with my own feeble self. Hell! I loathed hors d'oeuvres! I conjured disgusting visions of square glass plates of oily fish, of soggy vegetables glued together with cheap mayonnaise, of rank radishes and tasteless butter. No, Monsieur Paul or not, sad young pale-faced waitress or not, I hated hors d'oeuvres.
I glanced victoriously across the room at the cat, whose eyes seemed closed."
From M.F.K. Fisher, "Define This Word" (1936), in The Gastronomical Me
Posted December 18, 2003 11:33 AM
