The Specialty of the House

by Stanley Ellin

  Laffler’s voice jerked Costain out of his study. ‘Mr Sbirro. Mr Costain, a good friend and associate.’ Costain rose and shook the proffered hand. It was warm and dry, flint-hard against his palm.

  ‘I am so very pleased, Mr Costain. So very, very pleased,’ purred the voice. ‘You like my little establishment, hurr? You have a great treat in store, I assure you.’

  Laffler chuckled. ‘Oh, Costain’s been dining here regularly for two weeks,’ he said. ‘He’s by way of becoming a great admirer of yours, Sbirro.’

  The eyes were turned on Costain. ‘A very great compliment. You compliment me with your presence and I return same with my food, hurr? But the lamb Amirstan is far superior to anything of your past experience, I assure you. All the trouble of obtaining it, all the difficulty of preparation, is truly merited.’

  Costain strove to put aside the exasperating problem of that face. ‘I have wondered,’ he said, ‘why with all these difficulties you mention, you even bother to present lamb Amirstan to the public. Surely your other dishes are excellent enough to uphold your reputation.’

  Sbirro smiled so broadly that his face became perfectly round. ‘Perhaps it is a matter of the psychology, hurr? Someone discovers a wonder and must share it with others. He must fill his cup to the brim, perhaps, by observing the so evident pleasure of those who explore it with him. Or,’ he shrugged, ‘perhaps it is just a matter of good business.’

  ‘Then in the light of all this,’ Costain persisted, ‘and considering all the conventions you have imposed on your customers, why do you open the restaurant to the public instead of operating it as a private club?’

  The eyes abruptly glinted into Costain’s, then turned away. ‘So perspicacious, hurr? Then I will tell you. Because there is more privacy in a public eating place than in the most exclusive club in existence! Here no one inquires of your affairs; no one desires to know the intimacies of your life. Here the business is eating. We are not curious about names and addresses or the reasons for the coming and going of our guests. We welcome you when you are here; we have no regrets when you are here no longer. That is the answer, hurr?’

  Costain was startled by this vehemence. ‘I had no intention of prying,’ he stammered.

  Sbirro ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips. ‘No, no,’ he reassured, ‘you are not prying. Do not let me give you that impression. On the contrary, I invite your questions.’

  ‘Oh, come, Costain,’ said Laffler. ‘Don’t let Sbirro intimidate you. I’ve known him for years and I guarantee that his bark is worse than his bite. Before you know it, he’ll be showing you all the privileges of the house – outside of inviting you to visit his precious kitchen, of course.’

  ‘Ah,’ smiled Sbirro, ‘for that, Mr Costain may have to wait a little while. For everything else I am at his beck and call.’

  Laffler slapped his hand jovially on the table. ‘What did I tell you!’ he said. ‘Now let’s have the truth, Sbirro. Has anyone, outside of your staff, ever stepped into the sanctum sanctorum?’

  Sbirro looked up. ‘You see on the wall above you,’ he said earnestly, ‘the portrait of one to whom I did the honor. A very dear friend and a patron of most long standing, he is evidence that my kitchen is not inviolate.’

  Costain studied the picture and started with recognition. ‘Why,’ he said excitedly, ‘that’s the famous writer – you know the one, Laffler – he used to do such wonderful short stories and cynical bits and then suddenly took himself off and disappeared in Mexico!’

  ‘Of course!’ cried Laffler, ‘and to think I’ve been sitting under his portrait for years without even realizing it!’ He turned to Sbirro. ‘A dear friend, you say? His disappearance must have been a blow to you.’

  Sbirro’s face lengthened. ‘It was, it was, I assure you. But think of it this way, gentlemen: he was probably greater in his death than in his life, hurr? A most tragic man, he often told me that his only happy hours were spent here at this very table. Pathetic, is it not? And to think the only favor I could ever show him was to let him witness the mysteries of my kitchen, which is, when all is said and done, no more than a plain, ordinary kitchen.’

  ‘You seem very certain of his death,’ commented Costain. ‘After all, no evidence has ever turned up to substantiate it.’

  Sbirro contemplated the picture. ‘None at all,’ he said softly. ‘Remarkable, hurr?’

  With the arrival of the entree Sbirro leaped to his feet and set about serving them himself. With his eyes alight he lifted the casserole from the tray and sniffed at the fragrance from within with sensual relish. Then, taking great care not to lose a single drop of gravy, he filled two platters with chunks of dripping meat. As if exhausted by this task, he sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘to your good appetite.’

  Costain chewed his first mouthful with great deliberation and swallowed it. Then he looked at the empty tines of his fork with glazed eyes.

  ‘Good God!’ he breathed.

  ‘It is good, hurr? Better than you imagined?’

  Costain shook his head dazedly. ‘It is as impossible,’ he said slowly, ‘for the uninitiated to conceive the delights of lamb Amirstan as for mortal man to look into his own soul.’

  ‘Perhaps—’ Sbirro thrust his head so close that Costain could feel the warm, fetid breath tickle his nostrils – ‘perhaps you have just had a glimpse into your soul, hurr?’

  Costain tried to draw back slightly without giving offence. ‘Perhaps.’ He laughed. ‘And a gratifying picture it made: all fang and claw. But without intending any disrespect, I should hardly like to build my church on lamb en casserole.’

  Sbirro rose and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘So perspicacious,’ he said. ‘Sometimes when you have nothing to do, nothing, perhaps, but sit for a very little while in a dark room and think of this world – what it is and what it is going to be – then you must turn your thoughts a little to the significance of the Lamb in religion. It will be so interesting. And now—’ he bowed deeply to both men – ‘I have held you long enough from your dinner. I was most happy,’ he said, nodding to Costain, ‘and I am sure we will meet again.’ The teeth gleamed, the eyes glittered, and Sbirro was gone down the aisle of tables.

  Costain twisted around to stare after the retreating figure. ‘Have I offended him in some way?’ he asked.

  Laffler looked up from his plate. ‘Offended him? He loves that kind of talk. Lamb Amirstan is a ritual with him; get him started and he’ll be back at you a dozen times worse than a priest making a conversion.’

  Costain turned to his meal with the face still hovering before him. ‘Interesting man,’ he reflected. ‘Very.’

  It took him a month to discover the tantalizing familiarity of that face, and when he did, he laughed aloud in his bed. Why, of course! Sbirro might have sat as the model for the Cheshire cat in Alice!

  He passed this thought on to Laffler the very next evening as they pushed their way down the street to the restaurant against a chill, blustering wind. Laffler only looked blank.

  ‘You may be right,’ he said, ‘but I’m not a fit judge. It’s a far cry back to the days when I read the book. A far cry, indeed.’

  As if taking up his words, a piercing howl came ringing down the street and stopped both men short in their tracks. ‘Someone’s in trouble there,’ said Laffler. ‘Look!’

  Not far from the entrance to Sbirro’s two figures could be seen struggling in the near darkness. They swayed back and forth and suddenly tumbled into a writhing heap on the sidewalk. The piteous howl went up again, and Laffler, despite his girth, ran toward it at a fair speed with Costain tagging cautiously behind.

  Stretched out full-length on the pavement was a slender figure with the dusky complexion and white hair of one of Sbirro’s servitors. His fingers were futilely plucking at the huge hands which encircled his throat, and his knees pushed weakly up at the gigantic bulk of a man who brutally bore down with his full weight.

>   Laffler came up panting. ‘Stop this!’ he shouted. ‘What’s going on here?’

  The pleading eyes almost bulging from their sockets turned toward Laffler. ‘Help, sair. This man – drunk—’

  ‘Drunk am I, ya dirty—’ Costain saw now that the man was a sailor in a badly soiled uniform. The air around him reeked with the stench of liquor. ‘Pick me pocket and then call me drunk, will ya!’ He dug his fingers in harder, and his victim groaned.

  Laffler seized the sailor’s shoulder. ‘Let go of him, do you hear! Let go of him at once!’ he cried, and the next instant was sent careening into Costain, who staggered back under the force of the blow.

  The attack on his own person sent Laffler into immediate and berserk action. Without a sound he leaped at the sailor, striking and kicking furiously at the unprotected face and flanks. Stunned at first, the man came to his feet with a rush and turned on Laffler. For a moment they stood locked together, and then as Costain joined the attack, all three went sprawling to the ground. Slowly Laffler and Costain got to their feet and looked down at the body before them.

  ‘He’s either out cold from liquor,’ said Costain, ‘or he struck his head going down. In any case, it’s a job for the police.’

  ‘No, no, sair!’ The waiter crawled weakly to his feet, and stood swaying. ‘No police, sair. Mr Sbirro do not want such. You understand, sair.’ He caught hold of Costain with a pleading hand, and Costain looked at Laffler.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Laffler. ‘We won’t have to bother with the police. They’ll pick him up soon enough, the murderous sot. But what in the world started all this?’

  ‘That man, sair. He make most erratic way while walking, and with no meaning I push against him. Then he attack me, accusing me to rob him.’

  ‘As I thought.’ Laffler pushed the waiter gently along. ‘Now go in and get yourself attended to.’

  The man seemed ready to burst into tears. ‘To you, sair, I owe my life. If there is anything I can do—’

  Laffler turned into the areaway that led to Sbirro’s door. ‘No, no, it was nothing. You go along, and if Sbirro has any questions send him to me. I’ll straighten it out.’

  ‘My life, sair,’ were the last words they heard as the inner door closed behind them.

  ‘There you are, Costain,’ said Laffler, as a few minutes later he drew his chair under the table, ‘civilized man in all his glory. Reeking with alcohol, strangling to death some miserable innocent who came too close.’

  Costain made an effort to gloss over the nerve-shattering memory of the episode. ‘It’s the neurotic cat that takes to alcohol,’ he said. ‘Surely there’s a reason for that sailor’s condition.’

  ‘Reason? Of course there is. Plain atavistic savagery!’ Laffler swept his arm in an all-embracing gesture. ‘Why do we all sit here at our meat? Not only to appease physical demands, but because our atavistic selves cry for release. Think back, Costain. Do you remember that I once described Sbirro as the epitome of civilization? Can you now see why? A brilliant man, he fully understands the nature of human beings. But unlike lesser men he bends all his efforts to the satisfaction of our innate nature without resultant harm to some innocent bystander.’

  ‘When I think back on the wonders of lamb Amirstan,’ said Costain, ‘I quite understand what you’re driving at. And, by the way, isn’t it nearly due to appear on the bill of fare? It must have been over a month ago that it was last served.’

  The waiter, filling the tumblers, hesitated. ‘I am so sorry, sair. No special this evening.’

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Laffler grunted, ‘and probably just my luck to miss out on it altogether the next time.’

  Costain stared at him. ‘Oh, come, that’s impossible.’

  ‘No, blast it.’ Laffler drank off half his water at a gulp and the waiter immediately refilled the glass. ‘I’m off to South America for a surprise tour of inspection. One month, two months, Lord knows how long.’

  ‘Are things that bad down there?’

  ‘They could be better.’ Laffler suddenly grinned. ‘Mustn’t forget it takes very mundane dollars and cents to pay the tariff at Sbirro’s.’

  ‘I haven’t heard a word of this around the office.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be a surprise tour if you had. Nobody knows about this except myself – and now you. I want to walk in on them completely unexpected. Find out what flimflammery they’re up to down there. As far as the office is concerned, I’m off on a jaunt somewhere. Maybe recuperating in some sanatorium from my hard work. Anyhow, the business will be in good hands. Yours, among them.’

  ‘Mine?’ said Costain, surprised.

  ‘When you go in tomorrow you’ll find yourself in receipt of a promotion, even if I’m not there to hand it to you personally. Mind you, it has nothing to do with our friendship either; you’ve done fine work, and I’m immensely grateful for it.’

  Costain reddened under the praise. ‘You don’t expect to be in tomorrow. Then you’re leaving tonight?’

  Laffler nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to wangle some reservations. If they come through, well, this will be in the nature of a farewell celebration.’

  ‘You know,’ said Costain slowly, ‘I devoutly hope that your reservations don’t come through. I believe our dinners here have come to mean more to me than I ever dared imagine.’

  The waiter’s voice broke in. ‘Do you wish to be served now, sair?’ and they both started.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Laffler sharply, ‘I didn’t realize you were waiting.’

  ‘What bothers me,’ he told Costain as the waiter turned away, ‘is the thought of the lamb Amirstan I’m bound to miss. To tell you the truth, I’ve already put off my departure a week, hoping to hit a lucky night, and now I simply can’t delay any more. I do hope that when you’re sitting over your share of lamb Amirstan, you’ll think of me with suitable regrets.’

  Costain laughed. ‘I will indeed,’ he said as he turned to his dinner.

  Hardly had he cleared the plate when a waiter silently reached for it. It was not their usual waiter, he observed; it was none other than the victim of the assault.

  ‘Well,’ Costain said, ‘how do you feel now? Still under the weather?’

  The waiter paid no attention to him. Instead, with the air of a man under great strain, he turned to Laffler. ‘Sair,’ he whispered. ‘My life. I owe it to you. I can repay you!’

  Laffler looked up in amazement, then shook his head firmly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want nothing from you, understand? You have repaid me sufficently with your thanks. Now get on with your work and let’s hear no more about it.’

  The waiter did not stir an inch, but his voice rose slightly. ‘By the body and blood of your God, sair, I will help you even if you do not want! Do not go into the kitchen, sair. I trade you my life for yours, sair, when I speak this. Tonight or any night of your life, do not go into the kitchen at Sbirro’s!’

  Laffler sat back, completely dumbfounded. ‘Not go into the kitchen? Why shouldn’t I go into the kitchen if Mr Sbirro ever took it into his head to invite me there? What’s all this about?’

  A hard hand was laid on Costain’s back, and another gripped the waiter’s arm. The waiter remained frozen to the spot, his lips compressed, his eyes downcast.

  ‘What is all what about, gentlemen?’ purred the voice. ‘So opportune an arrival. In time as ever, I see, to answer all the questions, hurr?’

  Laffler breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Ah, Sbirro, thank heaven you’re here. This man is saying something about my not going into your kitchen. Do you know what he means?’

  The teeth showed in a broad grin. ‘But of course. This good man was giving you advice in all amiability. It so happens that my too emotional chef heard some rumor that I might have a guest into his precious kitchen, and he flew into a fearful rage. Such a rage, gentlemen! He even threatened to give notice on the spot, and you can understand what that would mean to Sbirro’s, hurr? Fortunately, I succeeded in showing him
what a signal honor it is to have an esteemed patron and true connoisseur observe him at his work firsthand, and now he is quite amenable. Quite, hurr?’

  He released the waiter’s arm. ‘You are at the wrong table,’ he said softly. ‘See that it does not happen again.’

  The waiter slipped off without daring to raise his eyes and Sbirro drew a chair to the table. He seated himself and brushed his hand lightly over his hair. ‘Now I am afraid that the cat is out of the bag, hurr? This invitation to you, Mr Laffler, was to be a surprise; but the surprise is gone, and all that is left is the invitation.’

  Laffler mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. ‘Are you serious?’ he said huskily. ‘Do you mean that we are really to witness the preparation of your food tonight?’

  Sbirro drew a sharp fingernail along the tablecloth, leaving a thin, straight line printed in the linen. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I am faced with a dilemma of great proportions.’ He studied the line soberly. ‘You, Mr Laffler, have been my guest for ten long years. But our friend here—’

  Costain raised his hand in protest. ‘I understand perfectly. This invitation is solely to Mr Laffler, and naturally my presence is embarrassing. As it happens, I have an early engagement for this evening and must be on my way anyhow. So you see there’s no dilemma at all, really.’

  ‘No,’ said Laffler, ‘absolutely not. That wouldn’t be fair at all. We’ve been sharing this until now, Costain, and I won’t enjoy the experience half as much if you’re not along. Surely Sbirro can make his conditions flexible, this one occasion.’

  They both looked at Sbirro who shrugged his shoulders regretfully.

  Costain rose abruptly. ‘I’m not going to sit here, Laffler, and spoil your great adventure. And then, too,’ he bantered, ‘think of that ferocious chef waiting to get his cleaver on you. I prefer not to be at the scene. I’ll just say goodbye,’ he went on, to cover Laffler’s guilty silence, ‘and leave you to Sbirro. I’m sure he’ll take pains to give you a good show.’ He held out his hand and Laffler squeezed it painfully hard.