Costain raised inquiring eyebrows.
‘Sbirro,’ said Laffler, ‘does not encourage members of the fair sex to enter the premises. And, I can tell you, his method is decidedly effective. I had the experience of seeing a woman get a taste of it not long ago. She sat at a table for not less than an hour waiting for service which was never forthcoming.’
‘Didn’t she make a scene?’
‘She did.’ Laffler smiled at the recollection. ‘She succeeded in annoying the customers, embarrassing her partner, and nothing more.’
‘And what about Mr Sbirro?’
‘He did not make an appearance. Whether he directed affairs from behind the scenes, or was not even present during the episode, I don’t know. Whichever it was, he won a complete victory. The woman never reappeared nor, for that matter, did the witless gentleman who by bringing her was really the cause of the entire contretemps.’
‘A fair warning to all present,’ laughed Costain.
A waiter now appeared at the table. The chocolate dark skin, the thin, beautifully molded nose and lips, the large liquid eyes, heavily lashed, and the silver white hair so heavy and silken that it lay on the skull like a cap, all marked him definitely as an East Indian of some sort, Costain decided. The man arranged the stiff table linen, filled two tumblers from a huge, cut-glass pitcher, and set them in their proper places.
‘Tell me,’ Laffler said eagerly, ‘is the special being served this evening?’
The waiter smiled regretfully and showed teeth as spectacular as those of the majordomo. ‘I am so sorry, sair. There is no special this evening.’
Laffler’s face fell into lines of heavy disappointment. ‘After waiting so long. It’s been a month already, and I hoped to show my friend here …’
‘You understand the difficulties, sair.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Laffler looked at Costain sadly and shrugged. ‘You see, I had in mind to introduce you to the greatest treat that Sbirro’s offers, but unfortunately it isn’t on the menu this evening.’
The waiter said, ‘Do you wish to be served now, sair?’ and Laffler nodded. To Costain’s surprise the waiter made his way off without waiting for any instructions.
‘Have you ordered in advance?’ he asked.
‘Ah,’ said Laffler, ‘I really should have explained. Sbirro’s offers no choice whatsoever. You will eat the same meal as everyone else in this room. Tomorrow evening you would eat an entirely different meal, but again without designating a single preference.’
‘Very unusual,’ said Costain, ‘and certainly unsatisfactory at times. What if one doesn’t have a taste for the particular dish set before him?’
‘On that score,’ said Laffler solemnly, ‘you need have no fears. I give you my word that no matter how exacting your tastes, you will relish every mouthful you eat in Sbirro’s.’
Costain looked doubtful, and Laffler smiled. ‘And consider the subtle advantages of the system,’ he said. ‘When you pick up the menu of a popular restaurant, you find yourself confronted with innumerable choices. You are forced to weigh, to evaluate, to make uneasy decisions which you may instantly regret. The effect of all this is a tension which, however slight, must make for discomfort.
‘And consider the mechanics of the process. Instead of a hurly-burly of sweating cooks rushing about a kitchen in a frenzy to prepare a hundred varying items, we have a chef who stands serenely alone, bringing all his talents to bear on one task, with all assurance of a complete triumph!’
‘Then you have seen the kitchen?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Laffler sadly. ‘The picture I offer is hypothetical, made of conversational fragments I have pieced together over the years. I must admit, though, that my desire to see the functioning of the kitchen here comes very close to being my sole obsession nowadays.’
‘But have you mentioned this to Sbirro?’
‘A dozen times. He shrugs the suggestion away.’
‘Isn’t that a rather curious foible on his part?’
‘No, no,’ Laffler said hastily, ‘a master artist is never under the compulsion of petty courtesies. Still,’ he sighed, ‘I have never given up hope.’
The waiter now reappeared bearing two soup bowls which he set in place with mathematical exactitude and a small tureen from which he slowly ladled a measure of clear, thin broth. Costain dipped his spoon into the broth and tasted it with some curiosity. It was delicately flavored, bland to the verge of tastelessness. Costain frowned, tentatively reached for the salt and pepper cellars, and discovered there were none on the table. He looked up, saw Laffler’s eyes on him, and although unwilling to compromise with his own tastes, he hesitated to act as a damper on Laffler’s enthusiasm. Therefore he smiled and indicated the broth.
‘Excellent,’ he said.
Laffler returned his smile. ‘You do not find it excellent at all,’ he said coolly. ‘You find it flat and badly in need of condiments. I know this,’ he continued as Costain’s eyebrows shot upward, ‘because it was my own reaction many years ago, and because like yourself I found myself reaching for salt and pepper after the first mouthful. I also learned with surprise that condiments are not available in Sbirro’s.’
Costain was shocked. ‘Not even salt!’ he exclaimed.
‘Not even salt. The very fact that you require it for your soup stands as evidence that your taste is unduly jaded. I am confident that you will now make the same discovery that I did: by the time you have nearly finished your soup, your desire for salt will be nonexistent.’
Laffler was right; before Costain had reached the bottom of his plate, he was relishing the nuances of the broth with steadily increasing delight. Laffler thrust aside his own empty bowl and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Do you agree with me now?’
‘To my surprise,’ said Costain, ‘I do.’
As the waiter busied himself clearing the table, Laffler lowered his voice significantly. ‘You will find,’ he said, ‘that the absence of condiments is but one of several noteworthy characteristics which mark Sbirro’s. I may as well prepare you for these. For example, no alcoholic beverages of any sort are served here, nor for that matter any beverage except clear, cold water, the first and only drink necessary for a human being.’
‘Outside of mother’s milk,’ suggested Costain dryly.
‘I can answer that in like vein by pointing out that the average patron of Sbirro’s has passed that primal stage of his development.’
Costain laughed. ‘Granted,’ he said.
‘Very well. There is also a ban on the use of tobacco in any form.’
‘But, good heavens,’ said Costain, ‘doesn’t that make Sbirro’s more a teetotaler’s retreat than a gourmet’s sanctuary?’
‘I fear,’ said Laffler solemnly, ‘that you confuse the words, gourmet and gourmand. The gourmand, through glutting himself, requires a wider and wider latitude of experience to stir his surfeited senses, but the very nature of the gourmet is simplicity. The ancient Greek in his coarse chiton savoring the ripe olive; the Japanese in his bare room contemplating the curves of a single flower stem – these are the true gourmets.’
‘But an occasional drop of brandy or pipeful of tobacco,’ said Costain dubiously, ‘are hardly overindulgence.’
‘By alternating stimulant and narcotic,’ said Laffler, ‘you seesaw the delicate balance of your taste so violently that it loses its most precious quality: the appreciation of fine food. During my years as a patron of Sbirro’s, I have proved this to my satisfaction.’
‘May I ask,’ said Costain, ‘why you regard the ban on these things as having such deep esthetic motives? What about such mundane reasons as the high cost of a liquor license, or the possibility that patrons would object to the smell of tobacco in such confined quarters?’
Laffler shook his head violently. ‘If and when you meet Sbirro,’ he said, ‘you will understand at once that he is not the man to make decisions on a mundane basis. As a matter of fact, it was Sbirro himself
who first made me cognizant of what you call “esthetic” motives.’
‘An amazing man,’ said Costain as the waiter prepared to serve the entree.
Laffler’s next words were not spoken until he had savored and swallowed a large portion of meat. ‘I hesitate to use superlatives,’ he said, ‘but to my way of thinking, Sbirro represents man at the apex of his civilization!’
Costain cocked an eyebrow and applied himself to his roast which rested in a pool of stiff gravy ungarnished by green or vegetable. The thin steam rising from it carried to his nostrils a subtle, tantalizing odor which made his mouth water. He chewed a piece as slowly and thoughtfully as if he were analyzing the intricacies of a Mozart symphony. The range of taste he discovered was really extraordinary, from the pungent nip of the crisp outer edge to the peculiarly flat, yet soul-satisfying ooze of blood which the pressure of his jaws forced from the half-raw interior.
Upon swallowing he found himself ferociously hungry for another piece, and then another, and it was only with an effort that he prevented himself from wolfing down all his share of the meat and gravy without waiting to get the full voluptuous satisfaction from each mouthful. When he had scraped his platter clean, he realized that both he and Laffler had completed the entire course without exchanging a single word. He commented on this, and Laffler said, ‘Can you see any need for words in the presence of such food?’
Costain looked around at the shabby, dimly lit room, the quiet diners, with a new perception. ‘No,’ he said humbly, ‘I cannot. For any doubts I had I apologize unreservedly. In all your praise of Sbirro’s there was not a single word of exaggeration.’
‘Ah,’ said Laffler delightedly. ‘And that is only part of the story. You heard me mention the special which unfortunately was not on the menu tonight. What you have just eaten is as nothing when compared to the absolute delights of that special!’
‘Good Lord!’ cried Costain. ‘What is it? Nightingale’s tongues? Filet of unicorn?’
‘Neither,’ said Laffler. ‘It is lamb.’
‘Lamb?’
Laffler remained lost in thought for a minute. ‘If,’ he said at last, ‘I were to give you in my own unstinted words my opinion of this dish, you would judge me completely insane. That is how deeply the mere thought of it affects me. It is neither the fatty chop, nor the too solid leg; it is, instead, a select portion of the rarest sheep in existence and is named after the species – lamb Amirstan.’
Costain knit his brow. ‘Amirstan?’
‘A fragment of desolation almost lost on the border which separates Afghanistan and Russia. From chance remarks dropped by Sbirro, I gather it is no more than a plateau which grazes the pitiful remnants of a flock of superb sheep. Sbirro, through some means or other, obtained rights to the traffic in this flock and is, therefore, the sole restaurateur ever to have lamb Amirstan on his bill of fare. I can tell you that the appearance of this dish is a rare occurrence indeed, and luck is the only guide in determining for the clientele the exact date when it will be served.’
‘But surely,’ said Costain, ‘Sbirro could provide some advance knowledge of this event.’
‘The objection to that is simply stated,’ said Laffler. ‘There exists in this city a huge number of professional gluttons. Should advance information slip out, it is quite likely that they will, out of curiosity, become familiar with the dish and thenceforth supplant the regular patrons at these tables.’
‘But you don’t mean to say,’ objected Costain, ‘that these few people present are the only ones in the entire city, or for that matter, in the whole wide world, who know of the existence of Sbirro’s!’
‘Very nearly. There may be one or two regular patrons who, for some reason, are not present at the moment.’
‘That’s incredible.’
‘It is done,’ said Laffler, the slightest shade of menace in his voice, ‘by every patron making it his solemn obligation to keep the secret. By accepting my invitation this evening you automatically assume that obligation. I hope you can be trusted with it.’
Costain flushed. ‘My position in your employ should vouch for me. I only question the wisdom of a policy which keeps such magnificent food away from so many who would enjoy it.’
‘Do you know the inevitable result of the policy you favor?’ asked Laffler bitterly. ‘An influx of idiots who would nightly complain that they are never served roast duck with chocolate sauce. Is that picture tolerable to you?’
‘No,’ admitted Costain, ‘I am forced to agree with you.’
Laffler leaned back in his chair wearily and passed his hand over his eyes in an uncertain gesture. ‘I am a solitary man,’ he said quietly, ‘and not by choice alone. It may sound strange to you, it may border on eccentricity, but I feel to my depths that this restaurant, this warm haven in a coldly insane world, is both family and friend to me.’
And Costain, who to this moment had never viewed his companion as other than tyrannical employer or officious host, now felt an overwhelming pity twist inside his comfortably expanded stomach.
By the end of two weeks the invitations to join Laffler at Sbirro’s had become something of a ritual. Every day, at a few minutes after five, Costain would step out into the office corridor and lock his cubicle behind him; he would drape his overcoat neatly over his left arm, and peer into the glass of the door to make sure his Homburg was set at the proper angle. At one time he would have followed this by lighting a cigarette, but under Laffler’s prodding he had decided to give abstinence a fair trial. Then he would start down the corridor, and Laffler would fall in step at his elbow, clearing his throat. ‘Ah, Costain. No plans for this evening, I hope.’
‘No,’ Costain would say, ‘I’m footloose and fancy-free,’ or ‘At your service,’ or something equally inane. He wondered at times whether it would not be more tactful to vary the ritual with an occasional refusal, but the glow with which Laffler received his answer, and the rough friendliness of Laffler’s grip on his arm, forestalled him.
Among the treacherous crags of the business world, reflected Costain, what better way to secure your footing than friendship with one’s employer. Already, a secretary close to the workings of the inner office had commented publicly on Laffler’s highly favorable opinion of Costain. That was all to the good.
And the food! The incomparable food at Sbirro’s! For the first time in his life, Costain, ordinarily a lean and bony man, noted with gratification that he was certainly gaining weight; within two weeks his bones had disappeared under a layer of sleek, firm flesh, and here and there were even signs of incipient plumpness. It struck Costain one night, while surveying himself in his bath, that the rotund Laffler, himself, might have been a spare and bony man before discovering Sbirro’s.
So there was obviously everything to be gained and nothing to be lost by accepting Laffler’s invitations. Perhaps after testing the heralded wonders of lamb Amirstan and meeting Sbirro, who thus far had not made an appearance, a refusal or two might be in order. But certainly not until then.
That evening, two weeks to a day after his first visit to Sbirro’s, Costain had both desires fulfilled: he dined on lamb Amirstan, and he met Sbirro. Both exceeded all his expectations.
When the waiter leaned over their table immediately after seating them and gravely announced: ‘Tonight is special, sair,’ Costain was shocked to find his heart pounding with expectation. On the table before him he saw Laffler’s hands trembling violently. But it isn’t natural, he thought suddenly. Two full grown men, presumably intelligent and in the full possession of their senses, as jumpy as a pair of cats waiting to have their meat flung at them!
‘This is it!’ Laffler’s voice startled him so that he almost leaped from his seat. ‘The culinary triumph of all times! And faced by it you are embarrassed by the very emotions it distills.’
‘How did you know that?’ Costain asked faintly.
‘How? Because a decade ago I underwent your embarrassment. Add to that your air of revulsion
and it’s easy to see how affronted you are by the knowledge that man has not yet forgotten how to slaver over his meat.’
‘And these others,’ whispered Costain, ‘do they all feel the same thing?’
‘Judge for yourself.’
Costain looked furtively around at the nearby tables. ‘You are right,’ he finally said. ‘At any rate, there’s comfort in numbers.’
Laffler inclined his head slightly to the side. ‘One of the numbers,’ he remarked, ‘appears to be in for a disappointment.’
Costain followed the gesture. At the table indicated a gray-haired man sat conspicuously alone, and Costain frowned at the empty chair opposite him.
‘Why, yes,’ he recalled, ‘that very stout, bald man, isn’t it? I believe it’s the first dinner he’s missed here in two weeks.’
‘The entire decade more likely,’ said Laffler sympathetically. ‘Rain or shine, crisis or calamity, I don’t think he’s missed an evening at Sbirro’s since the first time I dined here. Imagine his expression when he’s told that, on his very first defection, lamb Amirstan was the plat de jour.’
Costain looked at the empty chair again with a dim discomfort. ‘His very first?’ he murmured.
‘Mr Laffler! And friend! I am so pleased. So very, very pleased. No, do not stand; I will have a place made.’ Miraculously a seat appeared under the figure standing there at the table. ‘The lamb Amirstan will be an unqualified success, hurr? I myself have been stewing in the miserable kitchen all the day, prodding the foolish chef to do everything just so. The just so is the important part, hurr? But I see your friend does not know me. An introduction, perhaps?’
The words ran in a smooth, fluid eddy. They rippled, they purred, they hypnotized Costain so that he could do no more than stare. The mouth that uncoiled this sinuous monologue was alarmingly wide, with thin mobile lips that curled and twisted with every syllable. There was a flat nose with a straggling line of hair under it; wide-set eyes, almost oriental in appearance, that glittered in the unsteady flare of gaslight; and the long, sleek hair that swept back from high on the unwrinkled forehead – hair so pale that it might have been bleached of all color. An amazing face surely, and the sight of it tortured Costain with the conviction that it was somehow familiar. His brain twitched and prodded but could not stir up any solid recollection.
The Specialty of the House Page 2
