Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

‘Mr Bombai, this is your lucky day, because we’re doing our cabbage-trampling this afternoon. You can have all the cores you want.’

Bombai, having disposed of the soup, was in the process of inspecting both sides of his veal cutlet before squeezing a liberal dose of lemon on it, and looked up with a far more cheerful expression. ‘And pray tell, what will you give me if I show up as your cabbage-trampler?’ he inquired flirtatiously.

‘Ah, we shall to see about that,’ replied the proprietress with an air of mystery, before directing her steps toward the kitchen. The strokes of the noontime bell signaled that her customers were arriving in the restaurant.

In addition to the restaurant and the taproom, where Aranka’s approach in her colorful folksy outfit always caused even the most toothsome forkfuls to pause on the way to gaping mouths, just as beer mugs halted midway to the most inhumanly parched throats, beer mugs that were drained to the accompaniment of satisfied hiccups, belches and groaned comments as soon as the door slammed behind her blue-trimmed skirt — as I was saying, in addition to the restaurant and taproom the inn also boasted a café that was frequented mostly by gentlemen who for some incomprehensible reason preferred to stay in the vicinity of the cash till, even if it was tended by some old maid who only wore white stockings because that made it easy to pick off a flea. The gentlemen who leaned against her throne never drank anything but slivovitz and the like, accompanied by the requisite hawking and harrumphing; they smoked cigars and reused the paper holders, and discussed herds of black swine feeding on beech nuts and acorns in distant woods or stallions whinnying in even more distant paddocks, in tones that made you believe these beasts were next door, ready to be inspected by the potential buyer. But when Aranka’s blue and white checked shawl, spread over her shoulder, hove into view, even the far-flung thoughts of these gentlemen reverted to the immediate present as they observed with keen interest the way she counted out sugar portions as rapidly as if they were eggs on top of the cash register.

After the proprietress cast an expert glance over the account book she joyfully exclaimed: ‘Uncle Friedmann, I see you keep your moustache in good trim even in these miserable hard times.’

‘I’ve got no complaints, ‘ as long as it’s my brother-in-law’s hands that tremble ,’ came the reply from a small round table that was pushed close to the cash till as if it were a stove where a freezing man could expect some warmth.

Uncle Friedmann was an old-time broker who nowadays rarely left his nook, the corner table by the cash register, from where he contemplated with an ironic smile the waves of good humor or coarseness breaking around him. Every once in a while he would inquire after the price of springtime lamb’s wool that was shorn by hired women who knew their business. Only wool did he deem worthy of attention among all the goods that were traded. He knew just about everything there was to know about wool production in Hungary, and for this reason he entertained a deep cynicism about the rest of the world’s affairs. He was an old man with a grizzled moustache who held a deep grudge against every young broker who entered the café with a pipe clenched in his jaw. He claimed that pipes had gone out of fashion long ago and nowadays a man could only smoke one at home in the bosom of his family. At a coffee house, a decent person ordered cigars, and let the head waiter make a little money on the side.

‘So, Uncle Friedmann,’ began Aranka, pulling up a chair at the grim old man’s table. ‘I hope you have no stomach complaints?’

‘I should think not,’ replied old Friedmann. ‘For one thing, it’s not my habit; for another, I take great care about what I put in my mouth. Today for instance I had a mushroom omelette, but first I had the mushrooms brought in from the kitchen to make sure they did not include one that might cause trouble.’

‘Why, Mr Friedmann, do you know mushrooms that well?’ the landlady asked with enthusiasm, as if she had never heard this ancient story before.

‘Oh I know mushrooms, all right,’ said the old broker, solemnly sucking on his cherry-wood cigar-holder. ‘I know which are the best mushrooms brought to town by peasant women who pick them after the rains on the slopes of Schwab Hill, where the road takes a sharp turn. That’s where you find the tastiest mushrooms, because many an amorous little miss takes cover in those bushes to put her clothes in order, out of sight of her swain.’

‘Why, you old rascal!’ fluted Aranka in a cajoling tone, picking up the porcelain match-holder and turning it in her hand as if she had never seen acorns and hearts like the ones painted on it.

‘My dear Madam, in my life I have seen so much, going back to the collapse of the firm of Deutsch and Haas, that nothing surprises me anymore. Mushroom and eggs! Just the right nourishment for an elderly man who mustn’t burden his stomach with bean soup and pigs’ knuckles or sauerbraten in gravy. It’s of paramount importance that the eggs be fresh, laid preferably the same morning. I’m not a believer in so-called “candled” eggs. That’s why I usually bring my own eggs in a paper bag, bought at a reliable grocer, where I can be certain of their freshness.’

‘The eggs that village women bring us are quite good.’

‘Oh, those villagers are the biggest scoundrels!’ cried Friedmann, his face reddening with angry indignation, flying into a passion as many older men will when touched to the quick. ‘Why, those village women who seem to flounder so helplessly on the streets of the capital, like waterfowl lumbering on dry land — they will adulterate everything from red paprika to sour cream, when it’s not for their own use but for sale outside the train terminal at prices cheaper than the grocer’s, so the brainless wife of some office clerk will be happy to buy it and save a few pennies. That kind of customer will never realize she’s eating brick dust instead of paprika.’

‘We get our paprika in Szeged,’ the proprietress countered, in a wheedling voice. ‘If you’d like to see, I can show you the box our paprika comes in.’

But Friedmann was more interested in expounding certain principles that preoccupied him. ‘My poor wife, God rest her, would never buy anything but goose, and that only because we had a cousin who dealt in geese and was afraid of my fists, so he always gave us the best quality. But what could a woman know about buying horseradish, for instance? How would she know that in a village called Phtrugy, beyond the River Tisza, they grow a horseradish zesty and powerful enough to rouse a cataleptic from coma? Well, I’ve been to Phtrugy and bought a suitcase full of horseradish that I still use for my salads.’

The landlady stared at him with wide-eyed docility that implied she would remember each word for the rest of her life. ‘We usually serve grated horseradish on the side with our frankfurters, or pickled in vinegar, with our boiled beef.’

Friedmann nearly tipped over the table. ‘You mean to say you don’t know how to store horseradish in jars along with pickled gherkins, green peppers and beets? Prepared that way, by midwinter it acquires a flavour to make you feel at peace with the whole world. I always maintained that you don’t understand how to run a proper kitchen here, even if the innkeeper runs from cellar to attic all day. That’s why I come equipped for every contingency when I eat here. In one vest pocket I’ve got dried chili peppers to mince with my pocketknife into every dish that you serve: these peppers are hot enough to improve even a dish that would make your stomach ache the day after. In this other pocket here I have a young red onion you can decapitate at one bite, but I won’t tell you where I find them because the whole town would be there the next day. Also in my vest I have an authentic clove of garlic from a dealer I know personally, who purchased it in Makó. And I always carry some imported black pepper without which kidney and brains would be unthinkable. In my coat pocket there’s a small jar of mustard, the kind you can’t find in a restaurant where the owner refuses to take the trouble to go to the best stores. What’s a poor widower to do when he has to rely on restaurant meals? He must bring in his pocket all the condiments that add true savor to food and life itself. For I’ve got all the time in the world to observe how the population is being poisoned by adulterated spices.’