Hornblower had thought of helping himself to chicken, but somehow — and he grinned at himself internally — this last speech diverted him from doing so. The beefsteak pie was in great demand and had almost disappeared, and as a junior officer he knew better than to anticipate his seniors’ second helpings. The ragout of pork, rich in onions, was at the far end of the table.
“I’ll make a start on this, sir,” he said, indicating an untouched dish before him.
“Hornblower has a judgement that puts us all to shame,” said Pellew. “That’s a kickshaw in which my chef takes particular pride. To go with it you’ll need these purée potatoes, Hornblower.”
It was a dish of brawn, from which Hornblower cut himself moderately generous slices, and it had dark flakes in it. There was no doubt that it was utterly delicious; Hornblower diving down into his general knowledge, came up with the conclusion that the black flakes must be truffle, of which he had heard but which he had never tasted. The purée potatoes, which he would have called mashed, were like no mashed potatoes he had ever sampled either on shipboard or in a sixpenny ordinary in England. They were seasoned subtly and yet to perfection — if angels ever ate mashed potatoes they would call on Pellew’s chef to prepare them. With spring greens and carrots — for both of which he hungered inexpressibly — they made a plateful, along with the brawn, of sheer delight. He found himself eating like a wolf and pulled himself up short, but the glance that he stole round the table reassured him, for the others were eating like wolves too, to the detriment of conversation, with only a few murmured words to mingle with the clash of cutlery.
“Wine with you, sir.” “Your health, Admiral.” “Would you give the onions a fair wind, Grindall?” and so on.
“Won’t you try the galantine, Lord Henry?” asked Pellew. “Steward, a fresh plate for Lord Henry.”
That was how Hornblower learned the real name of the brawn he was eating. The ragout of pork drifted his way and he helped himself generously; the steward behind him changed his plate in the nick of time. He savoured the exquisite boiled onions that wallowed in the beatific sauce. Then like magic the table was cleared and fresh dishes made their appearance, a pudding rich with raisins and currants, jellies of two colours; much labour must have gone into boiling down the bullock’s feet and into subsequent straining to make that brilliant gelatine.
“No flour for that duff,” said Pellew apologetically. “The galley staff has done its best with biscuit crumbs.”
That best was as near perfection as mind could conceive; there was a sweet sauce with it, hinting of ginger, that made the most of the richness of the fruit. Hornblower found himself thinking that if ever he became a post captain, wealthy with prize money, he would have to devote endless thought to the organization of his cabin stores. And Maria would not be of much help he thought ruefully. He was still drifting along with thoughts of Maria when the table was swept clear again.
“Caerphilly, sir?” murmured a steward in his ear. “Wensleydale? Red Cheshire?”
These were cheeses that were being offered him. He helped himself at random — one name meant no more to him than mother — and went on to make an epoch‑making discovery, that Wensleydale cheese and vintage port were a pair of heavenly twins, Castor and Pollux riding triumphantly as the climax of a glorious procession. Full of food and with two glasses of wine inside him — all he allowed himself — he felt vastly pleased with the discovery, rivalling those of Columbus and Cook. Almost simultaneously he made another discovery which amused him. The chased silver fingerbowls which were put on the table were very elegant; the last time he had seen anything like them was as a midshipman at a dinner at Government House in Gibraltar. In each floated a fragment of lemon peel, but the water in which the peel floated — as Hornblower discovered by a furtive taste as he dabbed his lips — was plain sea water. There was something comforting in that fact.