He sat up and sniffed the air around him. Strange. The smells of the restaurant still lingered about his nose, stubbornly, unavoidably, assertively. That stuffy fragrance, fragrant stuffiness, that cruel, aromatic combination of caraway, onions fried in fat, and the pleasantly bitter hop breath of beer. He leaned back on his pillow. “Noix de veau. Another puzzle. One imagines walnut segments, sweet and oily, but that’s not what it is. Soft, juicy pieces of tender meat that melt at once in the mouth. Not to be sneezed at. Especially after one of those tempting hors d’oeuvres on the menu. Crayfish bisque, caviar à la russe. Absurd, macabre names. Scrambled eggs with chicken livers, pike in white wine, brains in browned butter. Enough. Enough of this stuff and nonsense.” He straightened his pillow and sought a more comfortable position. (Location 760)
