Charles stood on the steps of the hotel and waited for the doorman to get him a taxi. He was pleasantly
full, his blood warmed by rich food and exquisite wine. His face felt flushed, proof even against the chill
of a New York autumn night.
He rubbed the considerable bulk of his stomach
absently. He dearly loved eating, and of all his favorite restaurants, his favorite was right here.
But tonight, tonight! the Monsignor had outdone himself. Charles sighed.
This was utter contentment.
"Excuse me," came a voice from behind him.
He turned, expecting to find that maybe he'd left his hat in the restaurant. But it wasn't
the maitre'd, it was a tall, painfully thin man. He was dressed in a faded overcoat and sported dirty
blond hair in a state of wild abandonment.
Charles felt a surge of irritation.
The man was obviously a panhandler. A beggar! And he was interrupting Charles'
necessary rumination on the beautiful meal he had just consumed. He glanced down the steps, where the doorman
was still waiting for a taxi to come by. There would be no rescue from that front.
"Can I help you?" asked Charles, trying to put an edge on his voice.
"Can
you spare some change?" asked the man. Predictable.
"No."
"Oh. Well, sorry to bother you."
Charles nodded and turned back to the street.
At least the beggar was polite.
The man cleared his throat behind Charles. "Ah,
I was wondering..."
Charles turned back around. "I don't have any
money on me," he said hotly.
"Oh no! That's not it at all."
Charles paused. "I beg your pardon?"
"I was...I was wondering if you could tell
me...you just ate inside, right?"
"Yes," said Charles. "But
this is not the sort of place to give out doggy bags, as you can well see."
"Oh, I
know, I know...I was just hoping you might tell me...if you don't mind, that is...what you had for dinner."
"What?"
"I...I'm very hungry. I'd just like to know
what you had for dinner. It might help a little."
"I don't
think..."
"Please. I'm not asking you for any money or anything. But you're
a man who obviously enjoys his food, and I just thought you might tell me about your dinner."
How
very odd, Charles thought. But he was intrigued. He'd never been approached with
such a request, by anybody, panhandler or otherwise. But if there was something he loved more than eating,
it was holding forth on what he had just eaten.
He cleared his throat. "Well,
you must know first that this is French cuisine, probably the best in New York."
"I
see."
"Their soup is outstanding, you must understand. I started my meal with a sort of celery soup.
Beautiful earthy, crisp flavors of the celery root, sustained by giblets, amazingly crisp carrots, topped with coriander,
fresh from the chef's garden I don't doubt."
"That sounds delicious," the man said.
"It was indeed delicious. But it only whet my appetite for the main course, which is their
outstanding version of cassoulet."
"Cassoulet?"
"Yes,
a traditional French dish. Very complicated, very sophisticated. Very difficult to do
well, if you ask me. In any case, they play a little with tradition by using a pork confit rather than
duck or goose. They...you understand what a confit is?"
"Ah...no."
"Well, its...oh, no matter. What matters is that its delicious, made from the tenderest pork
you can imagine, then combined with garden tomatoes and white beans. The colors are gorgeous."
"Please, go on," said the man.
Charles sighed in happy remembrance.
"This being French cuisine, there have to be truffles, of course. The truffled mashed potatoes
are delightful, I'll tell you. The flavor from the black truffles are so subtle, such a complicated
undertone. Some chefs understate the truffles, but not here! Oh no, they're plentiful
and fragrant. Beautiful!"
The man may have groaned, but Charles was on
a roll. His eyes were closed in ecstatic remembrance.
"And then dessert! I
can't begin to describe the skill, the panache, the Monsignor has with his pastries. Such a traditionalist,
but with such skill, too. They're lighter than clouds, but rich with butter and cream, custard.
You'd think it would be too heavy after the meal, but with a rich, black coffee it strikes just the right note.
Superb. Simply superb."
Charles sighed and opened his eyes.
The panhandler stood, a glazed look in his eyes, a slight smile on his lips.
"Did...did that help?" asked Charles.
The man blinked slowly. "Yes.
That was wonderful. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much."
"Well, happy to oblige. Um...have a good evening." He turned back towards
the street. The doorman was down the block a ways arguing with a cab driver.
"One more thing..."
Charles turned back around. "Hmm?
What's that?"
"Did you know that it takes only twenty minutes for food to enter the bloodstream once digestion begins?"
"What? Why, what an odd thing to say," exclaimed Charles.
The
man licked his lips. "Yes. Yes, I suppose it is."
THE END
