I was hungry and could eat a horse. Not that I would mind you, it's just an expression. You wouldn't say it in France though, they'd think you were serious. The French picked up eating horsemeat when Napolean retreated from Moscow that time in the winter. Horsemeat and frozen croissants. What a meal. And the French are supposed to be so good with food. It made me sick. But not sick enough to pass on dinner.
The dining room was impressive. DuFarge collected art of all sorts. All kinds. The silverware had been used by Louis and Marie Antoinette right before she said the infamous line,
"Let 'em eat cake."
The plates were used by the Pope. The walls had a Chagall on one side and a Gauguin on the other. The crystal chandelier over our heads had hung in the Summer Palace in St. Petersburg right before they shot the Czar.
To tell you the truth the whole place made me uncomfortable. It gave me the creeps.
"What's to eat?" I asked and shifted in my seat.
"Anything you like," said Dufarge. He lit a cigarette. The lighter was Faberge.
"I'll take a Big Mac and some fries," I answered.
I was only trying to be funny.
Nobody laughed.