At such moments of gloom, the old habitués are likely to remember, with a nostalgic sigh, the day in the late twenties when old dignified Hofrat (court councillor) von B, one of Heinrich's favorite guests, came into the dining room of Meissl and Schadn, exactly at twelve fifteen, as he'd done almost every day in the past twenty-seven years, and was ceremoniously guided to his table. Everybody knew, of course, that the Herr Hofrat came to feast on “his” Tafelspitz, the front part of that special cut which almost, but not quite, touches another first-quality Viennese cut called Hieferscbwanzl. If the Kaiser himself would have come in, he wouldn't have been served that particular piece of Tafelspitz. Heinrich had a deep sense of loyally toward his long-time habitués.
On that day, as on any other day, there was the familiar ceremonial after the Hofrat had sat down, In due time the Commit appeared with the covered silver plate, followed by the piccolo who carried the Apfelkren. But at this point the waiter did not lift the cover off the silver plate to “present” the meat, as he'd always done. Instead he discreetly glanced at Heinrich. Then the old man himself advanced toward the Hofrat's table, slowly and cautiously, like a large ocean liner moving toward the pier. Everybody looked at him. It had become very quiet in the dining room.
Heinrich bent his back until his mouth almost touched the Hofrat's ear.
'I'm disconsolate, Herr Hofrat,“ he whispered.” A regrettable accident in the kitchen. The Hofrat's Tafelspitz has been cooked too long. It has—well, dissolved.“ Heinrich's trembling fingertips indicated that the overcooked meat had dissolved in the soup like snowflakes in the February sunshine. He was very pale and his jowls were sagging. He looked as though he had been dead for a while and had been resurrected by mistake.
His breath almost gave out, but with a supreme effort he continued, “I have taken the liberty to order for the Herr Hofrat the rear part of the Hiefer-scbwanzl, close to, and very much like, the Tafelspitz.”
He made an effort to open his eyes and nearly succeeded. At his nod, the waiter lifted the cover off the plate with a fourish and presented the meat. There it was, a large, beautiful cut, tender and juicy, sprinkled with consommé, as delicate and enticing a piece of boiled beef as you could find anywhere in the world.
The Hofrat sat up stiffly. He cast one short, shocked glance at the meat. When he spoke at last, his voice had the ring of arrogance—arrogance instilled in him by generations of boiled-beef-eating ancestors who had been around in Vienna as early as 1684, when the city had fought off the assault of the Turks and saved, for a while at least, Western civilization.
“My dear Heinrich,” the Hofrat said. with a magnificent sweep of his hand, and accentuating every syllabic, “you might as well have offered me a veal cutlet.”
A slight shiver seemed to run down his spine. He got up. “My hat and cane, please.”
He strode stiffly toward the door. Heinrich made his deepest full-bow, and he kept bowing all the time until the Hofrat had left. But people sitting near Heinrich swear that there was a smile of pride on his face. He looked almost happy.
Pinterest
