"It does my heart good," said Madame Levi, laughing heartily at one of Aaron's jokes, "to be among our own people again."
"Come often, come often," said Aaron Cohen. "You and yours will always be welcome."
The meal consisted of coffee, Passover cakes, fresh butter, and fried and stewed fish. Nothing could be more tempting to the eye than the large dish of stewed fish, with its thick yellow sauce of egg and lemon, and nothing more tempting to the palate, unless it were the fried fish, with its skin nicely browned, and cooked in such a way as to bring out the full sweetness of the flesh.
"We have the advantage of the Gentile," chuckled Aaron, who always took fried fish for his first course, and stewed for his second. "We know how to fry fish. It is strange that in all these thousands of years he has not discovered the simple secret."
"I have not tasted such stewed fish for I don't know how many years," observed Madame Levi, who had just been assisted to a second helping.
"Mrs. Cohen fries fish beautifully," said Aaron, "but her stewed fish is a marvel."
"That is the way my husband always speaks of me," said Rachel, with an affectionate smile. "He does not believe I have a fault."
"A woman who cooks fish as she does," said Aaron, oracularly, "cannot have a fault; she is a perfect woman. She is a glory and an honour to her sex. Again I assert, her stewed fish is a marvel."
"He forgets," said Rachel sweetly, to her guests, "that I have to trust others."
"My dear," persisted Aaron, "you stand by and direct. A victorious general does not rush into the battle; he stands aside, and gives his orders. With my own eyes I saw you squeeze the lemons; with my own eyes I saw you mix the batter; each slice of fish passed through your hands before it was put into the pan and saucepan. You know, Madame Levi, how important it is that the fish should be properly dried before it goes through the ordeal of fire."
"You bring it to my mind," said Madame Levi, speaking in a pensive tone; "my mother could fry and stew fish beautifully."
"But not like Rachel," rejoined Aaron. "I will give way on every other point, but not on this. If I were a plaice or a halibut I should be proud to be treated so; it would be a worthy ending of me, and I should bless the hand that cut me up. I should feel that I had not lived in vain. There is a spiritual touch," he continued, waiting until the laughter had subsided, "in these things. Half a lemon more or less makes all the difference in stewed fish; an egg more or less, the consistency of the batter, and the quality of the oil, make all the difference when you are frying. In England the poor and middle-class Christians are shocking cooks; the moment they touch it half the goodness of the food is gone. It is a melancholy fact, and it is the cause of innumerable domestic grievances. It drives away cheerfulness, it breeds sulks and bad temper, and yet the women will not learn--no, they will not learn. When you see a well-ordered household and a peaceful home, the children happy and contented, the husband and wife affectionate to each other, you know at once that the mistress is a good cook. You laugh; but it is really a very serious matter. It goes straight to the root of things."