“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 curve 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 overindulgences.”
“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 entrée.
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 brows. “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.