Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

Janet now re-entered the room with the giant strides of a major-domo leading an entire procession whereas she had only that certain servant girl in tow whose two hands now held a great serving tray made of burl wood.

‘I see a bird! A fine-looking fowl!’ rejoiced Kalkuttai, even though secretly he had been reminiscing about a bean soup brimming with tender bits of smoke-cured ribs and an especially toothsome kind of sausage, along with noodles, so that regardless of whether it was needed or not, you could stir in a few drops of wine vinegar. This vision also included the dark-haired lady of the tavern hovering in the background, undecided as yet about which guest to favour with her after-dinner conversation.

Janet sat down at her place and received the platters from the maid, positioning them with great care in the middle of the table within reach of Kalkuttai. An oval serving platter presented roast goose with an abundance of gravy. The drumsticks pointed upwards, as if about to run off into some green meadow; the thigh meat, sliced into a stack, still swelled as mightily as in the days when the goose took its first tentative flight over a pond.

Janet held forth like some schoolmarm. ‘I didn’t dare to roast it very long for fear of drying out the meat. Only certain kinds of beef can take that much roasting. This tender goose is for nibbling and “sucking on”. Each little bone can be taken into the mouth one by one, some you can chew without hurting your insides. My first husband had the habit of picking up even large marrow bones to gnaw the scraps off, because usually those are the most delicious titbits. You don’t need to save anything for the dog since we don’t have one. But what are you thinking of, Kalkuttai, choosing that breast piece when there’s all that nice thigh meat? Will I live to see you forget to dunk your bread in the gravy?’

No, Kalkuttai did not forget to dunk, although in the meantime his thoughts had secretly wandered back to a certain cashier lady named Gavotte whom he had once seen at a café in Kormend. He knew not why she came to mind, for this cash till queen, courted by lieutenants of the local infantry regiment, paid no attention whatsoever to a transient government official. She somehow managed to look right through him, her eyes aimed in the direction of the market square, where a kaftaned orthodox Jew happened to be bargaining for a shipment of onions. What was so remarkable about him that made Gavotte absorbed enough to withdraw her hairpin from her chignon, only to reinsert it in another place? Kalkuttai recalled the capacious purse the Jew paid from, scornfully pulling banknotes from various compartments, like one who is all too aware of the wretched value of money — he refrained from licking his fingers to count the banknotes, the way Gentiles do, thereby acquiring all kinds of mouth ailments. Anyway, this Gavotte … forever remained a dream for the tax official Kalkuttai.

None the less he diligently kept dipping his bread into the gravy, after meticulously paring the crust from each slice. As he carefully affixed the piece of bread on his fork and rolled it around in the drippings, his face acquired the solemn expression of a chemist synthesizing an important compound in the laboratory. The gravity of his face relaxed only when the piece of bread, darkened by all the drippings it had soaked up, was ready to be transferred with an arc-like movement of the fork into his mouth. Alas, a few drops were wasted; they fell on the napkin. Kalkuttai repeatedly shot indignant looks at the napkin suspended from his neck and shook his head in disapproval, as if blaming someone for the waste.

Before attacking the goose proper he used his fork to plant pieces of bread crust at various strategic locations in the platter of goose drippings, the way a fisherman casts the baited hook. Having disposed of these coming attractions, he pulled back the flaring shirt cuffs on both wrists, and with thumb and forefingers picked up certain pre-selected morsels of meat.

‘Don’t mind my fingers, little lady!’ he said in a conciliatory tone before taking the first bite of tender young goose breast.

‘That’s how I prefer it, too,’ responded Janet from the other side of the table, likewise picking up a piece, the smallest and boniest, as befits the hostess.

Even though Kalkuttai smacked his lips, clicked his tongue, licked his teeth and the corners of his mouth and his moustache while eating the meat that was dripping with goose fat, Janet kept up a stream of talk, as if to conceal some inner anxiety:

‘Please make yourself at home. If your seat is uncomfortable, try another chair. Feel free to lift a leg every once in a while, for good circulation is paramount, and gas and bloating causes serious damage in a man who bottles up natural impulses. The pit of the stomach must stay unencumbered during a meal. Alas, we womenfolk have too many strings and bands in our skirts and underthings to do what is required for proper digestion. But you men have it easier — all you need to do is loosen the belt, let it out a notch, undo one button, and your circulation gets a tremendous boost.’

It would have been truly enjoyable to listen to Janet go on, if Kalkuttai’s shoes had not started to hurt him. His corns occasionally flared up, sometimes even right after a trimming, and this gave Kalkuttai a doleful expression.

The omniscient Janet noticed this at once. ‘Go ahead, slip your shoes off under the table. My husband used to do the same, with his comfortable elastic-sided boots. After lunch he always rose from table and walked to the sofa in his socks. I like a man who acts naturally.’

Kalkuttai was too ashamed to confess that he could not untie his shoelaces until bedtime, because that morning his shoelaces had broken and only with a great deal of trouble was he able to make them usable again. He chose to suffer in silence, and the home-fried potatoes paid the price. He failed to praise them sufficiently.

Janet complained: ‘Give me a man who, as soon as he comes home, gets down to shirtsleeves and slippers. With that kind of man you never have to worry that at your first word, your first little comment, he will grab his hat and run off to some smoky gambling casino or worse, to some stinky tavern. My kind of man settles in for a stay at home, because he knows that a woman needs some “looking after”. Take those home fries for instance. At this time of the year not everyone would dare to make them. They say it’s best to save potatoes for the winter when fires burn throughout the long evenings. Then a husband will rush home even from the next county if he catches scent of the young potatoes his wife is frying up.’

‘True, home fries are an excellent family meal,’ replied Kalkuttai, ‘but they still need those winter evenings, just as crayfish is best in June and July, when you soak your feet in a basin of cool water, next to which you place a wicker basket full of small crayfish that you can eat a hundred of, if you have nothing better to do.’

Janet wrinkled her forehead, and was not appeased even when Kalkuttai dipped a few potatoes in the drippings of goose fat. She had expected greater acclaim for her potatoes. She said nothing, and, to break the uncomfortable silence, Kalkuttai ventured a remark: ‘Come to think of it, maybe I’ll have some of that cucumber salad,’ as if he had just noticed, whereas he had been eyeing this favourite delicacy for some time.

Then, after preparing further bits of bread for dipping, he went on in a storytelling vein: ‘Once I had an acquaintance, a man of course, who was a wizard at concocting all sorts of salads. He wasn’t a cook; he was a land surveyor and assessor by profession. I had run into him during official field trips at a number of inns, at Vac among other places. Now Vac is known for its penitentiary, but you must also know that women from there go to Budapest for their rendezvous, just as women from here like to meet their beaux at Vac. Well, there’s an old hostelry called the Kuria in Vac, and it is quite a reliable place. That’s where the surveyor liked to mix his salad dressings. He travelled with a case full of various mustards and sauces in little bottles, because in the provinces you can’t always find authentic Dutch or English mustard. True, there are Hungarian mustards, especially homemade varieties, that will stand comparison with any foreign brand, but this surveyor was a fanatic when it came to his recipes. He used four different mustards for his lettuce salad.’