Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online

were followed by the pianist and her companions, who opted to sit at the other end of the table, leaving two vacant chairs next to Fatty and Betty. Thus when Rupert and Niamh O’Brien entered the room, they had no alternative but to sit next to Fatty and Betty.
    Although there was no choice for dinner – the guests being required to eat what had been prepared – Mrs. O’Connor still copied for each place an elegantly written menu, which informed the guests of what lay ahead. Rupert O’Brien picked this up and read out to the table at large:
    â€œFish Soup, Mountpenny-style, my goodness, followed by
Scaloppine alla Perugina
, and then apricot tartor chestnuts with Marsala. Wonderful!”
    â€œI wonder what fish they put in the soup,” said Betty.
    â€œFrom the lough, I expect,” said Rupert O’Brien. “Or perhaps from the sea. One never knows.”
    â€œNo,” said Fatty. “But either would be very satisfactory I’m sure.”
    â€œMind you,” Rupert O’Brien went on, “there are precious few fish left in the sea. Yeats was able to write a line about the ‘mackerel-teeming seas of Ireland.’ He wouldn’t be able to do that today.”
    â€œWhat’s happened?” asked Fatty.
    â€œThe Spanish have eaten them all,” said Rupert O’Brien. He turned to Niamh. “How do you think they do their
scaloppine
? Do you think it’ll be the same way as they did them in that charming little hotel in Perugia? With croutons?”
    â€œI expect so,” said Niamh. “Such
mignon
croutons; small and
mignon
.”
    â€œDo you know Italy well?” asked Fatty.
    â€œTolerably,” replied Rupert O’Brien. “Venice, Milan, Florence, Rome, Naples, Ravenna, Siena, and Perugia. Oh, and Palermo too. But ignorant about the rest, I’m afraid. And you?”
    â€œI plan to go there some time,” said Fatty. “It’s difficultfor us to get away from home. We’ve been waiting for this trip for some time.”
    â€œAnd tell me,” said Rupert O’Brien, breaking his bread roll over his plate, “where would home be?”
    â€œFayetteville,” replied Fatty.
    â€œFartyville?”
    â€œFayetteville,” said Fatty. “Fayetteville, Arkansas.”
    â€œOh,” said Rupert O’Brien.
    â€œCroutons,” Niamh interjected. “They did use croutons. I remember now. And they served them with
crostini di fegatini
. We had them just before we were due to go off to Urbino.”
    â€œOf course,” said Rupert O’Brien. “I remember that well. And we went to that marvellous little museum where they had the most surprising pictures. The Vincenzo Campi picture of the breadmaker, with all those marvellous loaves on the table and those perfectly angelic little children looking on while the baker dusted his hands with flour.” He turned to Fatty. “You know it? That picture?”
    Fatty appeared to think for a moment. “I don’t think so. No, I don’t think I do.”
    â€œLovely textures,” said Rupert O’Brien. “Lovely rich colours. Vibrant. Positively edible. You know, my test forart is this:
Do I want to eat it?
If I want to eat something, then I know it’s good.”
    â€œThat’s a good test,” said Fatty. He thought of washstands. Would it work for them as well?
    â€œMind you,” said Rupert O’Brien, “mediocre paintings of food can confuse the test. You may want to eat them, but for the wrong reasons. Take Giovanna Garzoni, for instance. You’ll know his picture of the old man of Artimino, of course. You know it?”
    Fatty shook his head.
    â€œWell it’s a remarkable painting. It hangs in the Pitti Palace in Florence. You know the Pitti Palace?”
    â€œNo,” said Fatty.
    â€œBut you know Florence, of course?” went on Rupert O’Brien.
    Again Fatty shook his