beef.

SERVANT. What else is it?

KHLESTAKOV. The devil knows, but it isn't roast beef.
It's roast iron, not roast beef. [Eats.] Scoundrels!
Crooks! The stuff they give you to eat! It makes your
jaws ache to chew one piece of it. [Picks his teeth with
his fingers.] Villains! It's as tough as the bark of a
tree. I can't pull it out no matter how hard I try. Such
meat is enough to ruin one's teeth. Crooks! [Wipes his
mouth with the napkin.] Is there nothing else?

SERVANT. No.

KHLESTAKOV. Scoundrels! Blackguards! They
might have given some decent pastry, or something, the
lazy good-for-nothings! Fleecing their guests! That's
all they're good for.

[The Servant takes the dishes and carries them out
accompanied by Osip.]



SCENE VII


Khlestakov alone.