“I’m not one of that kind!” Laffler said sharply. “And having the secret of Sbirro’s locked in myself for years has finally become unendurable.” He fumbled at the side of the gate and from within could be heard the small, discordant jangle of an ancient pull-bell. An interior door opened with a groan, and Costain found himself peering into a dark face whose only discernible feature was a row of gleaming teeth.
“Sair?” said the face.
“Mr. Laffler and a guest.”
“Sair,” the face said again, this time in what was clearly an invitation. It moved aside and Costain stumbled down a single step behind his host. The door and gate creaked behind him, and he stood blinking in a small foyer. It took him a moment to realize that the figure he now stared at was his own reflection in a gigantic pier glass that extended from floor to ceiling. “Atmosphere,” he said under his breath and chuckled as he followed his guide to a seat.
He faced Laffler across a small table for two and peered curiously around the dining room. It was no size at all, but the half-dozen guttering gas jets which provided the only illumination threw such a deceptive light that the walls flickered and faded into uncertain distance.
There were no more than eight or ten tables about, arranged to insure the maximum privacy. All were occupied, and the few waiters serving them moved with quiet efficiency. In the air was a soft clash and scrape of cutlery and a soothing murmur of talk. Costain nodded appreciatively.
Laffler breathed an audible sigh of gratification. “I knew you would share my enthusiasm,” he said. “Have you noticed, by the way, that there are no women present?”
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.”