One Sunday evening, while walking, our old journalist company stopped by an unknown restaurant for dinner. Studying the menu, I ask the waiter:
"The stew, isn't it, Southern?"
- No, creamy, fresh: it was made this evening.
"Then ," I say in a pained voice, " I can't eat it." Because I have some strange stomach problem, the doctor told me to never eat fresh stew, but only what was at least left over from the south. Come on, please, ask the kitchen: are there any leftover stews? Because, I say, I shouldn't eat fresh stew for the world.
"I'm sorry, grandpa, " says the waiter sadly, " but there's no leftover stew in the whole house, I can only serve fresh."
"Then bring me a portion, with potatoes!" I shout triumphantly.
And the loud laughter of the boys honors my brilliant idea. But the waiter, as he was leaving, waved his tablecloth with a smile and replied:
"I'm an old waiter, really!"
Source: Béla Tóth and Károly Szalay's collection
(Graphics: DeviantArt)
