Free Skylark by Dezsö Kosztolányi

Absurd, macabre names. Scrambled eggs with chicken livers, pike in white wine, brains in browned butter. Enough. Enough of this stuff and nonsense.”
    He straightened his pillow and sought a more comfortable position.
    “Skylark has a weak stomach, poor thing. Although she's plump, she can't take heavy food. And she's often sick. It's in all our interests to eat sensibly. And just think of her wonderfully nourishing fricassees and risottos. Especially the risottos. Ah, the risottos. And her pale sponge fingers. And semolina puddings. No one could say she starved us. Not in the least. If only they served food like that in restaurants. Actually, it wasn't
so
bad there...but at home. Yes, good home cooking.”
    Ákos had grown tired. He shut his eyes and surrendered himself to whatever came to mind.
    “Yesterday, for example. What did we have yesterday? Consommé, chicken risotto, bread-and-butter pudding. I remember exactly. Nothing more, nothing better. Now Weisz and Partner, he had something else. Goulash, that's what it was. Delicious, to be sure: rich, blood-red goulash soup with hot paprika from Szeged, the liquid dripping from his steaming potatoes. How I adored that in my younger days, when poor Mama was still alive. Goulash soup, veal and beef stew–God only knows when I had them last. I never dared ask for things like that. Out of consideration for
her
, I suppose. Not even when we went to a restaurant.”
    His eyes welled with tears as if something had stirred inside him.
    “Is it a sin? They say the devil torments the fasting hermit. If it is a sin, it's all the sweeter for being so. What do I care? One can't deny these things exist. Goulash soup exists, out there in the world, on the table, on Weisz and Partner's plate. And on the menu too, between the saddles of mutton and herdsmen's cutlets. Beside the tenderloins of pork and the rump steaks. And then all the other things on the menu–they exist too. The sides of pork, the Transylvanian mixed grills, the lamb chops. Not to mention all the dishes with English, French, and Italian names: beef-steaks, tournedos, fritto misto, breathing their foreign aromas. Then the cheeses, light and creamy, thick and heavy, the Camemberts, the Bries, the Port-Saluts; and the wines, red Bull's Blood from Eger, sweet muscatels, light Chardonnays, and Fair Maid from Badacsony, in tall and slender bottles. Fair Maid. Beloved Fair Maid. Ah, my sweet, Fair Maid...”
    The door opened.
    The woman came in from her cleaning. She had been doing the housework all morning. It was now past one and she had only just finished. She was clearly out of practice.
    She entered quietly. She thought her husband must have dozed off. But Ákos's eyes opened in alarm at the noise.
    “Were you asleep?” asked the woman.
    “No.”
    “I thought you were asleep.”
    “I wasn't.”
    “You look pale.”
    “Nonsense.”
    “Is something the matter?'
    Ákos rose from the couch with a guilty conscience, like a child caught up to some prank in bed. He didn't dare meet his wife's gaze, he felt so ashamed.
    “You're hungry,” said the woman. “That's what is is. You're hungry, my dear. You haven't eaten again. Not since last night. Let's go to the restaurant. It's getting late. We won't get a table.”
    They hurried. It surprised them how quickly they reached the King of Hungary. They found the restaurant in utter commotion. Plates clattered, wine stewards scurried and waiters scampered. Even the head waiter flitted to and fro on the swallow's wings of his tailcoat. He scribbled calculations on the back of a cigarette box, gave change, plucking silver coins from his palm, listened to complaints and trotted into the kitchens only to re-emerge moments later to reassure his customers that all was well. In spite of the regular Sunday commotion, his expression remained as calm and collected as ever.
    The Vajkays headed towards the table they had taken the day before. But there sat a spirited threesome