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William Somerset Maugham: The Luncheon

I saw her in the theatre. I sat down beside her during the interval. It was long since I had last seen her and if someone had mentioned her name I hardly think I would have recognized her. She addressed me brightly.

“Well, it is many years since we first met. How time does fly! Do you remember the first time I saw you? You asked me to luncheon.” Did I remember? It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a small apartment in a Latin Quarter and I was earning only just enough money to keep body and sole together. She had read a book of mine and had written to me about it. I answered, thanked her, and presently I received from her another letter saying that she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me. Would I give her a little luncheon at Foyot’s? Foyot’s is a restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going there. But I was flattered and was too young to have learned to say no to a woman. I had eighty francs (gold francs) to last me the rest of the month and a decent luncheon should not cost more than fifteen. If I stopped drinking coffee for the next two weeks I could manage well enough.

I answered that I would meet my friend at Foyot’s on Thursday at half past twelve. She was not so young as I expected. She was in fact a woman of forty and she gave me the impression of having more teeth than were necessary for any practical purpose. She talked a lot, but since she seemed inclined to talk about me I was prepared to be an attentive listener.

I was startled when the menu was brought, for the prices were a good deal higher than I had expected. But she assured me. “I never eat anything for luncheon,” she said.

“Oh, don’t say that!” I answered generously.

“I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they have any salmon.”

Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not on the menu, but I asked the waiter if there was any. Yes, a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first they had had. I ordered it for my guest. The waiter asked her if she would have something while it was being cooked.

“No,” she answered. “I never eat more than one thing. Unless you have a little caviar. I never mind caviar.” My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviar, but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter to bring caviar. For myself I chose the cheapest dish on the menu and that was a mutton chop.

“I think you are unwise to eat meat,” she said. “I don’t know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.”

Then came the question of drink.

“I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said.

“Neither do I,” I answered immediately. “Except white wine,” she continued as though I had not spoken. “These French white wines are so light. They are wonderful for the digestion.” “What would you like?” I asked, hospitable, but not exactly emotional. She gave me a bright and friendly flash of her white teeth.

“My doctor will not let me drink anything but champagne.”

I imagine I turned a little pale. I ordered half a bottle. I mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbidden me to drink champagne.

“What are you going to drink then?”

“Water.”

So she ate the caviar and then salmon. She talked happily of art and literature and music. But I wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task.

“I see you are in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. I am sure it is a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example and just eat one thing? I am sure you would feel so much better for it.”

“I am only going to eat one thing,” I said as the waiter came again with the menu.

She waved him aside with an airy gestu

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