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.