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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
103
"Snails,"
I
replied
promptly,
wholly
unchastened
by
the
prayers
I
had
just
been
writing
out
in
every
tense.
"Snails!
Ekelig."
And
she
waved
the
waiter
loftily
away,
and
looked
on
with
much
superciliousness
at
the
rest
of
us
enjoying
ourselves.
"What!
You
do
not
eat
this
excellent
ragout?"
asked
her
other
neighbour,
a
hot
man,
as
he
finished
clearing
his
plate
and
had
time
to
observe
the
emptiness
of
hers.
"You
do
not
like
calves'
tongues
and
mushrooms?
Sonderbar."
I
still
can
see
the
poor
lady's
face
as
she
turned
on
me
more
like
a
tigress
than
the
impassive
person
she
had
been
a
moment
before.
"Sie
unverschamter
Backfisch!"
she
hissed.
"My
favourite
dish--I
have
you
to
thank
for
spoiling
my
repast--my
day!"
And
in
a
frenzy
of
rage
she
gripped
my
arm
as
though
she
would
have
shaken
me
then
and
there
in
the
face
of
the
multitude,
while
I
sat
appalled
at
the
consequences
of
indulging
a
playful
fancy
at
the
wrong
time.
Which
story,
now
I
come
to
think
of
it,
illustrates
less
the
tremendous
importance
of
food
in
our
country
than
the
exceeding
odiousness
of
Backfisch
in
scarlet
coats.
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