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"May I have a liqueur brandy?" I asked, seeing that I would be compelled
to take something. "Perhaps you will have one with me?"
"Ach no! But a kuemmel--yes, I will have a kuemmel!" And he filled our
glasses, and tossed off his own at a single gulp, smacking his lips
after it, for the average Russian dearly loves his national decoction of
caraway seeds.
"You find Olinto a good servant, I suppose?" I said, for want of
something else to say.
"Excellent. The Italians are the best waiters in the world. I am
Russian, but dare not employ a Russian waiter. These English would not
come to my shop if I did."
I looked around, and it struck me that the trade of the place mainly
consisted in chops and steaks for chance customers at mid-day, and tea
and cake for those swarms of women who each afternoon buzz around that
long line of windows of the "world's provider." I could see that his was
a cheap trade, as revealed by the printed notice stuck upon one of the
long fly-blown mirrors: "Ices _4d_ and _6d_.


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