"Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Any visitor finding himself in Griboedov's, unless of course he was a
total dim-wit, would realize at once what a good life those lucky fellows,
the Massolit members, were having, and black envy would immediately start
gnawing at him. And he would immediately address bitter reproaches to heaven
for not having endowed him at birth with literary talent, lacking which
there was naturally no dreaming of owning a Massolit membership card, brown,
smelling of costly leather, with a wide gold border -- a card known to all
Moscow.
Who will speak in defence of envy? This feeling belongs to the nasty
category, but all the same one must put oneself in the visitor's position.
For what he had seen on the upper floor was not all, and was far from all.
The entire ground floor of the aunt's house was occupied by a restaurant,
and what a restaurant! It was justly considered the best in Moscow. And not
only because it took up two vast halls with arched ceilings, painted with
violet, Assyrian-maned horses, not only because on each table there stood a
lamp shaded with a shawl, not only because it was not accessible to just
anybody coming in off the street, but because in the quality of its fare
Griboedov's beat any restaurant in Moscow up and down, and this fare was
available at the most reasonable, by no means onerous, price.
Hence there was nothing surprising, for instance, in the following
conversation, which the author of these most truthful lines once heard near
the cast-iron fence of Griboedov's:
'Where are you dining today, Amvrosy?'
'What a question! Why, here, of course, my dear Foka! Archibald
Archibaldovich whispered to me today that there will be perch au naturel
done to order. A virtuoso little treat!'
'You sure know how to live, Amvrosy!' skinny, run-down Foka, with a
carbuncle on his neck, replied with a sigh to the ruddy-lipped giant,
golden-haired, plump-cheeked Amvrosy-the-poet.
'I have no special knowledge,' Amvrosy protested, 'just the ordinary
wish to live like a human being. You mean to say, Foka, that perch can be
met with at the Coliseum as well. But at the Coliseum a portion of perch
costs thirteen roubles fifteen kopecks, and here -- five-fifty! Besides, at
the Coliseum they serve three-day-old perch, and, besides, there's no
guarantee you won't get slapped in the mug with a bunch of grapes at the
Coliseum by the first young man who bursts in from Theatre Alley. No, I'm
categorically opposed to the Coliseum,' the gastronome Amvrosv boomed for
the whole boulevard to hear. 'Don't try to convince me, Foka!'
'I'm not trying to convince you, Amvrosy,' Foka squeaked. 'One can also
dine at home.'
'I humbly thank you,' trumpeted Amvrosy, 'but I can imagine your wife,
in the communal kitchen at home, trying to do perch au naturel to order in a
saucepan! Hee, hee, hee! ... Aurevwar, Foka!' And, humming, Amvrosy directed
his steps to the veranda under the tent.
Ahh, yes! ... Yes, there was a time! ... Old Muscovites will remember
the renowned Griboedov's! What is poached perch done to order!
Cheap stuff, my dear Amvrosy! But sterlet, sterlet in a silvery chafing
dish, sterlet slices interiaid with crayfish tails and fresh caviar? And
eggs en cocotte with mushroom puree in little dishes? And how did you like
the fillets of thrush? With truffles? Quail a la genoise? Nine-fifty! And