The waiter watches me with a condescending look that’s insulting. Admittedly, my attire leaves something to be desired and an outcast like me has no place in such a luxury hotel, but since I’m here, and Cay will be coughing up a three-figure sum later, his pretentious cookery makes me want to order a couple of doughnuts.
“For Monsieur, foie gras ravioli with morel cream served with asparagus tips sauteed in balsamic butter.”
“You have no canned sauerkraut instead?”
The face of the waiter turns to crimson and I exult.
“Sir jokes,” Cay apologizes. “Thank you.”
Mister stick-up-the-backside leaves us. In front of me, Enoch Cay tasted his lobster with expert gestures. I taste the ravioli. It tastes better than canned sauerkraut that I stuff myself with three or four times a week.
“Let’s r
