egg

In fact, the place seemed so unartificial that Theresa, facing Mr. Wrenn, was runescape gold     bored. And the menu was foreign without being Society viands. It suggested rats’ tails and birds’ nests, she was quite sure. She would gladly have experimented with pate de foie gras or alligator-pears, but what social prestige was there to be gained at the factory by remarking that she runescape power leveling   “always did like pahklava“? Mr. Wrenn did not see that she was glancing about discontentedly, for he was delightedly listening to a lanky young man at the next table who was remarking to his vis-a-vis, a pale slithey lady in black, with the lines of a torpedo-boat: “Try some of the stuffed vine-leaves, child of the angels, and some wheat pilaf and some runescape accounts    bourma. Your wheat pilaf is a comfortable food and cheering to the stomach of man. Simply won-derful. As for the bourma, he is a merry beast, a brown rose of pastry with honey cunningly secreted runescape money     between his petals and—- Here! Waiter! Stuffed vine-leaves, wheat p’laf, bourm’ –twice on the order and hustle it.”

“When you get through listening to that man–he talks like a bar of soap–tell me what there is on this bill of fare that’s safe to eat,” snorted Theresa.

“I thought he was real funny,” insisted Mr. Wrenn…. “I’m sure you’ll like shish kebab and s—-”

“Shish kibub! Who ever heard of such a thing! Haven’t they any–oh, I thought they’d have stuff they call `Turkish Delight’ and things like that.”

“`Turkish Delights’ is cigarettes, I think.”

“Well, I know it isn’t, because I read about it in a story in a magazine. And they were eating it. On the terrace…. What is that shish kibub?”

“Kebab…. It’s lamb roasted on skewers. I know you’ll like it.”

“Well, I’m not going to trust any heathens to cook my meat. I’ll take some eggs and some of that–what was it the idiot was talking about–berma?”

“Bourma…. That’s awful nice. With honey. And do try some of the stuffed peppers and rice.”

“All right,” said Theresa, gloomily.

Somehow Mr. Wrenn wasn’t vastly transformed even by the possession of the two thousand dollars her mother had reported. He was still “funny and sort of scary,” not like the overpowering Southern gentlemen she supposed she remembered. Also, she was hungry. She listened with stolid glumness to Mr. Wrenn’s observation that that was “an awful big hat the lady with the funny guy had on.”

He was chilled into quietness till Papa Gouroff, the owner of the restaurant, arrived from above - stairs. Papa Gouroff was a Russian Jew who had been a police spy in Poland and a hotel proprietor in Mogador, where he called himself Turkish and married a renegade Armenian. He had a nose like a sickle and a neck like a blue-gum nigger. He hoped that the place would degenerate into a Bohemian restaurant where liberal clergymen would think they were slumming, and barbers would think they were entering society, so he always wore a fez and talked bad Arabic. He was local color, atmosphere, Bohemian flavor. Mr. Wrenn murmured to Theresa:

“Say, do you see that man? He’s Signor Gouroff, the owner. I’ve talked to him a lot of times. Ain’t he great! Golly! look at that beak of his. Don’t he make you think of kiosks and hyrems and stuff? Gee! What does he make you think—-”

“He’s got on a dirty collar…. That waiter’s awful slow…. Would you please be so kind and pour me another glass of water?”

But when she reached the honied bourma she grew tolerant toward Mr. Wrenn. She had two cups of cocoa and felt fat about the eyes and affectionate. She had mentioned that there were good shows in town. Now she resumed:

“Have you been to `The Gold Brick’ yet?”

“No, I–uh–I don’t go to the theater much.”