The stranger raised his eyes on high.

"Ah, God," he said, "I give Thee thanks that at last I can talk to this
low-browed, brutal son of a degenerate race of cooks." He turned to
Lewis. "Tell him," he continued--"tell him that I never want to see
anything boiled again unless it's his live carcass boiling in oil. Tell
him that I hate the smell, the sight, and the sound of garlic. Tell him
that jerked beef is a fitting sustenance for maggots, but not for
hungering man. Tell him there is a place in the culinary art for red
peppers, but not by the handful. Tell him, may he burn hereafter as I
have burned within and lap up with joy the tears that I have shed in
pain. Tell him--tell him that."

For the first time in the presence of the stranger Lewis smiled. His
smile was rare and, as is often the case with a rare smile, it held
accumulated charm.

"Sir," he said, "let me cook a meal for you."

While Lewis cooked, the stranger laid the table for two. In less than an
hour the meal was ready. A young fowl, spitchcocked, nestled in a snowy
bed of rice, each grain of which was a world unto itself. The fowl was
basted with the sovereign gravy of the South; thick, but beaten smooth,
dusted with pepper and salt, breathing an essence of pork. Beside the
laden platter was a plate of crisp bread--bread that had been soaked
into freshness in a wet cloth and then toasted lightly. Beside the bread
lay a pat of fresh butter on a saucer. It was butter from the tin, but
washed white in the cool water of the spring, and then sprinkled with
salt.