Little Apples

THE FOOLISH FRENCHMAN

Henri Pourquoi, a clown in the Gintz Brothers Circus, went into Moscow’s renowned Testov Tavern to eat lunch.

“I’d like some consommé, please,” he told the waiter.

“With poached eggs, or without?”

“Without—poached eggs might be a little too heavy for me. But I wouldn’t mind two or three slices of toast.”

While Pourquoi waited for his consommé, he looked around. The first thing he noticed was a portly gentleman at the next table, who was about to eat some blinis.

“My goodness,” the clown muttered to himself as he watched his neighbor pour melted butter over the blinis. “The portions they serve in these Russian restaurants! Five blinis! Can one man eat so many?”

His neighbor was now heaping caviar onto the blinis. He cut them into halves, and had eaten them all within a minute.

“Hey there!” the man called out to the waiter. “I’ll have another portion! Do you call these servings? You know what? Bring me ten, fifteen blinis right away! And a nice slice of sturgeon while you’re at it, and some salmon!”

“How very odd,” Pourquoi thought, peering at his neighbor. “He’s just eaten five whole blinis and now he’s ordering more! Not that this is a unique phenomenon. After all, Oncle François back in Brittany had no trouble downing two bowls of soup and five lamb chops at a single sitting. I’ve heard say that there are illnesses where people simply can’t stop eating.”

The waiter placed a platter piled with blinis and two plates before the clown’s neighbor, one with sturgeon filets, the other with salmon. The portly gentleman drank a glass of vodka, ate a slice of salmon, and then turned his attention to the blinis. To the clown’s amazement, he set about eating them like a starving man, barely pausing to chew.

“He’s obviously sick,” Pourquoi mused. “But does the poor misguided fool really think he can finish off that enormous pile of pancakes? Three more bites and his stomach will be full, but he’ll still have to pay for the whole lot!”

“More caviar!” his neighbor called out, dabbing his oily lips with his napkin. “And don’t forget the green onions!”

“But . . . half the pile is gone already!” the clown muttered to himself in horror. “My God! Has he already finished the whole plate of salmon? That isn’t natural! Can a human stomach expand to such an extent? Impossible! It cannot expand beyond the belly! Back in France, exhibiting this man at a freak show you could rake in a fortune! Good heavens! The whole pile of blinis is gone!”

“And I’ll have a bottle of Château Neuille,” his neighbor said to the waiter, who had just brought him onions and more caviar. “But see that it’s not overchilled! Hmm, what else do I want? Oh yes, another serving of blinis! But don’t take all day!”

“Yes sir! And what will you be having as a second course?”

“Something lighter, I think. Get me a portion of sturgeon stew à la russe, will you? And also . . . um . . . give me a few minutes to think—off you go!”

“I must be dreaming!” the clown gasped, slumping against the back of his chair. “This man is courting death. No one can eat such a pile of food and expect to get away with it! Goodness! He’s trying to commit suicide! It’s written all over his sad face! But hasn’t the waiter suspected anything? He must have!”

Pourquoi motioned to the waiter who had been serving his neighbor, and asked him in a whisper: “Why are you giving him so much food?”

“Well, the gentleman ordered it. What am I supposed to do,” the waiter asked in surprise, “not serve him?”

“But he might keep ordering food all day and all night! If you don’t have the pluck to stop him, then get the manager to, or call the police!”

The waiter grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away.

“Barbarians!” the Frenchman uttered indignantly. “They are delighted that a madman, a suicidal maniac, is sitting here spending his rubles on their food! They don’t care that this man is eating himself to death as long as the money keeps rolling in!”

“I don’t think much of the service here!” the portly gentleman growled, turning to the Frenchman. “I can’t tell you how all this waiting irritates me! They make you wait a good half hour from one plate to the next! No wonder your appetite goes to the dogs! Not to mention that they make you late—it’s three o’clock already, and I’m expected at an anniversary dinner at five!”

“Pardon, monsieur,” Pourquoi said, his face ashen, “but you are already dining!”

“No-o-o! You call this dining? This is lunch—a few little blinis.”

The waiter placed the stew in front of the portly gentleman, who filled his plate, sprinkled cayenne pepper over it, and began slurping down one spoonful after another.

“The poor man,” the French clown muttered, appalled. “He is either sick, or simply not aware of the danger he is in—or he is doing this on purpose . . . with the intention of committing suicide! Lord in heaven! Had I known what my eyes would see in this place, nothing on earth would have induced me to come here! My nerves aren’t strong enough for such a spectacle!”

The Frenchman looked pityingly at his neighbor, waiting from minute to minute for the convulsions to begin, the same convulsions that had invariably gripped Oncle François after his dangerous meals.

“It’s plain to see that the man is intelligent, young, and full of vitality,” Pourquoi thought, eyeing his neighbor. “He might serve his country well, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he has a young wife too, and children. And judging by his clothes he must be well-to-do, with a good position. But what could push a man like that to such drastic measures? Couldn’t he have chosen another way of doing himself in? It’s amazing how little life is valued! How low and contemptible I am, sitting here without offering him a helping hand! Perhaps he can still be saved!”

Pourquoi resolutely got up from his chair and walked over to his neighbor.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said in a hushed, ingratiating voice. “Though I have not had the honor of being introduced to you, I would like to assure you that you can think of me as a friend. Can I be of help to you in any way? Don’t forget that you are still young . . . that you have a wife, children.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the man said, glaring at the Frenchman.

“Let us not mince words at a time like this, monsieur! After all, I have eyes in my head! You are eating so much, that I . . . can but conjecture—”

“Me? Eating so much?” the man spluttered. “Me? Come, come! I haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast!”

“But you are eating incredible amounts of food!”

“What are you worried about? It’s not as if you have to foot the bill! And what makes you think that I am eating all that much? Look around you!—I’m not eating more than anyone else!”

Pourquoi looked around, and tottered. Waiters bustling past each other were carrying plates piled high with food. The tables were filled with people devouring mountains of blinis, salmon, and caviar with as much gusto as the portly gentleman.

“O strange and wild country!” the French clown thought as he left the restaurant. “Not only is your climate miraculous, but so are the bellies of your people! O wondrous Russia!”