‘…a vicaire or a mongoose…’ said the Witness, ‘…or a bowlful of rectory stew, I’m damned famished…’. The touché-chef at the Moulineaux Café makes the most inspired Haute-Normandie soufflé, flambéed in 27½ year-old cognac and over-ripe cherries. All who taste his gastronomic delight, and there are many, fall crestfallen to the floor in the knowledge that they’re in the presence of a master who’s culinary skills are far superior to your run-of-the-mill fry-cook’s mash and rashers. ‘…I’ll have a fish cake and a pint of Paddy’s, and step on it before I loose consciousness…’ bellowed the Witness, the woman seated next to him overcome with fright. The touché-chef makes a sumptuous chocolaty Brauschweig pudding, sifting Mijolla icing sugar on top and finishing it off with a dollop of fresh-whipped cream.
At the corner of Czacki and Mickiewicz Streets Felix Günther jumped out of his Landau and into the day, his satchel clutched life a newborn calf under his arm. The Maracay Aragua women’s auxiliary were putting on their yearly bazaar, setting out tablefuls of knickknacks and oddities in the parking lot behind the pump house vestibular. Felix Günther made a special trip to the settlement every year, arriving the opening day hoping to purloin some long-lost oddity, haggling with a half-blind vendor or a cheating a slow-witted artisan out of a bejewelled antique hatbox. ‘…su infinita...’ said a woman in an lavender coat, the sun having reached its noontime peak. ‘…viene el juego con las putas, mi estimado hombre…’. That afternoon the woman’s auxiliary brought in $270.00, the bazaar considered a smashing success. (Odintsov Kaliningrad, what an odd name).
At the corner of Czacki and Mickiewicz Streets Felix Günther jumped out of his Landau and into the day, his satchel clutched life a newborn calf under his arm. The Maracay Aragua women’s auxiliary were putting on their yearly bazaar, setting out tablefuls of knickknacks and oddities in the parking lot behind the pump house vestibular. Felix Günther made a special trip to the settlement every year, arriving the opening day hoping to purloin some long-lost oddity, haggling with a half-blind vendor or a cheating a slow-witted artisan out of a bejewelled antique hatbox. ‘…su infinita...’ said a woman in an lavender coat, the sun having reached its noontime peak. ‘…viene el juego con las putas, mi estimado hombre…’. That afternoon the woman’s auxiliary brought in $270.00, the bazaar considered a smashing success. (Odintsov Kaliningrad, what an odd name).
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