Among the treacherous crags of the business world, reflected Costain, what better way to secure your footing than friendship with one’s employer. Already, a secretary close to the workings of the inner office had commented publicly on Laffler’s highly favorable opinion of Costain. That was all to the good.
And the food! The incomparable food at Sbirro’s! For the first time in his life, Costain, ordinarily a lean and bony man, noted with gratification that he was certainly gaining weight; within two weeks his bones had disappeared under a layer of sleek, firm flesh, and here and there were even signs of incipient plumpness. It struck Costain one night, while surveying himself in his bath, that the rotund Laffler, himself, might have been a spare and bony man before discovering Sbirro’s.
So there was obviously everything to be gained and nothing to be lost by accepting Laffler’s invitations. Perhaps after testing the heralded wonders of lamb Amirstan and meeting Sbirro, who thus far had not made an appearance, a refusal or two might be in order. But certainly not until then.
That evening, two weeks to a day after his first visit to Sbirro’s, Costain had both desires fulfilled: he dined on lamb Amirstan, and he met Sbirro. Both exceeded all his expectations.
When the waiter leaned over their table immediately after seating them and gravely announced: “Tonight is special, sair,” Costain was shocked to find his heart pounding with expectation. On the table before him he saw Laffler’s hands trembling violently. “But it isn’t natural,” he thought suddenly: “Two full-grown men, presumably intelligent and in the full possession of their senses, as jumpy as a pair of cats waiting to have their meat flung to them!”
“This is it!” Laffler’s voice startled him so that he almost leaped from his seat. “The culinary triumph of all times! And faced by it you are embarrassed by the very emotions it distills.”
“How did you know that?” Costain asked faintly.
“How? Because a decade ago I underwent your embarrassment. Add to that your air of revulsion and it’s easy to see how affronted you are by the knowledge that man has not yet forgotten how to slaver over his meat.”
“And these others,” whispered Costain, “do they all feel the same thing?”
“Judge for yourself.”
Costain looked furtively around at the nearby tables. “You are right,” he finally said. “At any rate, there’s comfort in numbers.”
Laffler inclined his head slightly to the side. “One of the numbers,” he remarked, “appears to be in for a disappointment.”
Costain followed the gesture. At the table indicated a gray-haired man sat conspicuously alone, and Costain frowned at the empty chair opposite him.
“Why, yes,” he recalled, “that very stout, bald man, isn’t it? I believe it’s the first dinner he’s missed here in two weeks.”
“The entire decade more likely,” said Laffler sympathetically. “Rain or shine, crisis or calamity, I don’t think he’s missed an evening at Sbirro’s since the first time I dined here. Imagine his expression when he’s told that on his very first defection, lamb Amirstan was the plat du jour.”
Costain looked at the empty chair again with a dim discomfort. “His very first?” he murmured.
“Mr. Laffler! And friend! I am so pleased. So very, very pleased. No, do not stand; I will have a place made.” Miraculously a seat appeared under the figure standing there at the table. “The lamb Amirstan will be an unqualified success, hurr? I myself have been stewing in the miserable kitchen all the day, prodding the foolish chef to do everything just so. The just so is the important part, hurr? But I see your friend does not know me. An introduction, perhaps?”
The words ran in a smooth, fluid eddy. They rippled, they purred, they hypnotized Costain so that he could do no more than stare. The mouth that uncoiled this sinuous monologue was alarmingly wide, with thin mobile lips that curled and twisted with every syllable. There was a flat nose with a straggling line of hair under it; wide-set eyes, almost oriental in appearance, that glittered in the unsteady flare of gaslight; and long, sleek hair that swept back from high on the unwrinkled forehead — hair so pale that it might have been bleached of all color. An amazing face surely, and the sight of it tortured Costain with the conviction that it was somehow familiar. His brain twitched and prodded but could not stir up any solid recollection.
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.”