Feuilly, frankly, was entirely suspicious of Bahorel’s giddy insistence that he try a bite of the cake he’d brought. Not that he thought there was anything wrong with it– it was really quite good, as it happened, and that wasn’t the way Bahorel operated. But there was something, he was sure of it.
“I am told they make such a cake in Hungary,” Bahorel said. “Which I thought would please you. I couldn’t possibly tell you what they call it. Well, I could try, but it would bear no resemblance at all to what the word ought to be.”
“Well, what is it in French?” Feuilly asked.
“Some call in a Napoleon– and so of course, it is our duty to destroy it as quickly as possible. I am sorry to say they call it the napoleonka in Polish, too. I’ve heard it called a torte franchipane– but if you wish to order it for yourself, you’d best call it by its Parisian name.”
Feuilly was very suspicious now. “Which is?”
Bahorel beamed. “A mille-feuille.”
Feuilly, fortunately, had just enough mille-feuille left on his fork to flick across the table.
“Ah!” Bahorel cried. “Now I’m all feuille-y.”
…which Feuilly had to concede he’d walked right into.
goddammit lark
This minific has inspired the best tags I’ve ever gotten.
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eirenical17 