Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

‘Yes, those little cabbages at Geza’s brunch were superbly raised to envelop the stuffing lightly packed within their leaves, awaiting not so much the knife and fork as the spoon, which is far more suitable for doing a thorough job. Of course Geza did not forget to stir in a few chunks of ham, of the reddish, home-smoked variety, whose attraction lies precisely in its small size, making it easier to smoke. A ham like that comes with bones that are delicate and diminutive, and its so-called “whistle bone” can be nibbled at both ends, even by an old man. I repeat, even though we happened to be at our friend Hintenreiter’s on Wreath Street I did not shrink from uttering loud words of praise for Geza Neuzidler’s bravely innovative stuffed cabbage brunch (after doing justice to it, much to Geza’s delight, most of us groaned “That does it for today’s lunch”, but as consolation someone chimed in: “It’s always like this at the restaurateurs’ brunch”), oh yes, I had the courage to speak the truth — while cursing the brewery that sent extra kegs for the occasion, for we old-timers know full well the kind of scheming that goes on behind these “extra” kegs, even if they do come from the same special batch that was formerly brewed for old man Dreher and the Emperor Franz Josef himself.

‘Since restaurant owners like to think the brewery leeches off them, my words were received with approval, for no matter how far their connections go back, when the brewery is mentioned restaurateurs don’t need to resort to absinthe mixed with Chinese drops to whet their appetite for angry complaints and loud oaths. So it was in vain the bartender hauled in the keg to tap it in front of us with the copper tube. The guests shivered at first as they eyed the golden brew in the glass that had a collar like an officer of the guards, but truth to tell the first glasses went down in one gulp — after all, it was a pleasure to drink the same beer that was once brewed for Franz Josef. However, that Old Gentleman does not drink any more, that is, not more than one fat glassful, somewhat less than a stein.

‘Therefore we soon switched to wine, for a tavern-keeper is ultimately judged by the wine he serves. Certain dishes can succeed or fail, as a fricassee of turkey necks may vary according to the cook’s mood, but when it comes to wine, there’s no room for mistakes when connoisseurs sit at the table, some of whom will chew the wine not only with their molars but their incisors as well, before letting it trickle down the gullet. Not to mention those ultimate cognoscenti whose tongues start to whirl like a reel as the inside of the mouth turns into a sieve when they sample an unknown vintage. An acquaintance of mine in Buda, where there is reason to beware of adulterated wine, has been known to snort a noseful before making a purchase. This wine here, for instance, would never pass my friend’s muster,’ said Mr Draggle and he made as if he were about to snort up through his nose the rufke , as he sometimes liked to call his wine.

But instead of raising the glass to his lips, he resumed lecturing his table companion, who now turned the napkin tied around his neck inside out so that it showed traces of the sorrel sauce served yesterday or the day before.

Draggle was stunned. ‘They served sorrel sauce here?’ he exclaimed, as if he had learned something extraordinary. ‘Real sorrel sauce, without my knowing about it, although I stop here just about every day, whenever my official duties allow? Tell me, did you actually have some of that sorrel sauce? And I don’t mean wild sorrel, that makes cows’ bellies swell, but fine, authentic, cultivated garden sorrel, that women await so eagerly in their little vegetable gardens at the coming of spring? Hats off to sorrel sauce that is prepared the right way — it stands for youthful zest in life, in food, in mood, in appetites. One woman alone knew the secret of preparing a righteous sorrel sauce, and that was Teneri’s first wife, whom he followed to the grave, in order to escape his second wife.’

‘Look, I have no interest whatsoever in your complicated family histories,’ said his table companion, aware that the landlady had started to stare at them with eyes that could charm a snake. And the restaurant patron remains a coward even when he has a book of meal tickets in his pocket.

But Draggle would not be silenced. ‘Each dish, and each person, has a different taste at different times of life. Take me, for instance: only now am I beginning to appreciate sorrel sauce made with sour cream, at my time of life, when I have pretty much seen it all, as a result of my official post as well as personal experience. Life and food are best in springtime, when you still believe yours is the first leaf of sorrel in the garden, when you are convinced that you are the only one charged with living life to the fullest. A time when you take no one too seriously, for people come and go, good ones replace the bad — a time when a failed lunch is no tragedy, for there are still so many lunches awaiting you, and you still have plenty of time left to forget all the landladies that had ever played a role in your life. As Draggle is my name, that’s how I too used to think once upon a time — it was no big thing if I missed out on a sorrel sauce, because I knew for certain that mountains of sorrel still awaited me. But now I am beginning to feel the pang of each missed meal and each bypassed dish, for I think I’ll never be able to make up for it in this life. Oh, who knows if I’ll ever eat sorrel sauce again?’

… This melancholy thought made Mr Draggle reach with solemn finality for his untouched Bit o’Sorrow (as he liked to call his glass of wine at times), intending to raise the iridescent glass to his lips.

But the waiter behind his back stayed his hand. ‘Do you have any money, Mr Draggle? Because you used up your credit long ago.’

Mr Draggle released the wine glass, stood up, and without a word to the waiter, paused only to admonish his table companion: ‘I’ll drop by again after lunch and we’ll continue our chat about the peculiarities of food. The goodness of bread. Or the sweetness of wine.’ And he walked out with head held high.

(1927)