Recrossing the little valley, we came to another Greek quarter,
Totaola, where our stomachs gave us a hint that this would be a
favorable moment in which to investigate the interior of one of those
innumerable restaurants of Constantinople, all of which, built on the
same plan, present the same extraordinary appearance. There is one
huge room, which might on occasion be turned into a theatre, lighted,
as a rule, only by the door through which you enter; around it runs
a high wooden gallery furnished with a balustrade. On one side is an
enormous stove at which a brigand in shirt-sleeves fries fish, bastes
the roast, mixes sauces, and devotes himself generally to the business
of shortening human life; at a counter on the other side another
forbidding-looking individual serves out red and white wine in glasses
with handles; in the middle and front of the apartment are low stools
without backs and little tables scarcely higher than the stools,
looking for all the world like cobblers’ benches. We entered with some
slight feeling of hesitation, not knowing whether the groups of Greeks
and Armenians of the lower orders already assembled might not evince
some disagreeable signs of curiosity; on the contrary, however, no one
deigned so much as to look at us. It is my belief that the population
of Constantinople is the least inquisitive of any on the face of the
globe. You must be the Sultan at least, or else promenade through the
streets without any clothes on, like the madman of Pera, for people to
show that they are so much as aware of your existence. Taking our seats
in a corner, we waited some time, but, as nothing happened, we finally
concluded that it must be the custom in Constantinopolitan restaurants
for every one to look out for himself. Advancing then boldly to the
stove, we each got a portion of the roast--Heaven only knows from what
quadruped--and then, providing ourselves with a glass apiece of the
resinous Tenedos wine, we returned to our corner, spread the repast out
on a table barely reaching to our knees, and, with a sidelong glance
at one another, fell to and consumed the sacrifice. After resignedly
settling the account we walked out in perfect silence, afraid on our
lives to open our lips for fear a bray or a bark should escape them,
and resumed our walk in the direction of the Golden Horn, somewhat
chastened in spirit.
[Illustration: Panorama of the Arsenal and Golden Horn.]