‌

He lay back and rubbed his stomach. For the next hour he amused himself, and tortured himself, by making an inventory of the finest breakfasts he had ever eaten. That done, he set to thinking about the food he had left untouched. White butter subsiding into the heart of a warm roll, condemned by a scrumpled napkin. A dish of eggs en cocotte that he had once petulantly mashed and sent back, cold, to the kitchen. Silver dishes of deviled kidneys, of crepes so buttery they glistened over the tiny spirit lamp that chafed the dish; mounds of fresh croissants, baskets overflowing with brioches, baguettes whiter than the snow in Warsaw, or the inside of a redhead’s thigh!