DAINTY DISHES FOR A DOLL
The meals that Chrysantheme enjoys are something almost indescribable.
She begins in the morning, when she wakes, with two little green wild
plums pickled in vinegar and rolled in powdered sugar. A cup of tea
completes this almost traditional breakfast of Japan, the very same that
Madame Prune is eating downstairs, the same that is served in the inns to
travellers.
At intervals during the day the meals are continued by two little dinners
of the drollest description. They are brought up on a tray of red
lacquer, in microscopic cups with covers, from Madame Prune's apartment,
where they are cooked: a hashed sparrow, a stuffed prawn, seaweed with a
sauce, a salted sweetmeat, a sugared chili! Chrysantheme tastes a little
of all, with dainty pecks and the aid of her little chopsticks, raising
the tips of her fingers with affected grace. At every dish she makes a
face, leaves three parts of it, and dries her finger-tips after it in
apparent disgust.
These menus vary according to the inspiration that may have seized Madame
Prune. But one thing never varies, either in our household or in any
other, neither in the north nor in the south of the Empire, and that is
the dessert and the manner of eating it: after all these little dishes,
which are a mere make-believe, a wooden bowl is brought in, bound with
copper--an enormous bowl, fit for Gargantua, and filled to the very brim
with rice, plainly cooked in water. Chrysantheme fills another large bowl
from it (sometimes twice, sometimes three times), darkens its snowy
whiteness with a black sauce flavored with fish, which is contained in a
delicately shaped blue cruet, mixes it all together, carries the bowl to
her lips, and crams down all the rice, shovelling it with her two
chop-sticks into her very throat. Next the little cups and covers are
picked up, as well as the tiniest crumb that may have fallen upon the
white mats, the irreproachable purity of which nothing is allowed to
tarnish. And so ends the dinner.