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Muriel Errera’s house is next to the Royal Palace in Brussels. She
said she’d like to give a dinner party and would invite whoever I
wanted her to, plus, of course, her friends. Since I was staying in
the country south of the city, I asked whether she’d like me to
bring along some mushrooms. She said certainly. I arrived at the
party with several baskets. I forget what all I had found, but one
basket was nothing but Lepiota caps fit for the people next door.
I was taken in an elevator four flights up to a small improvised
kitchen. After making certain that everything I would need for
cooking was available I went back downstairs. I met the guests and
had some drinks and then, after the first few courses, went
upstairs again, this time to cook the mushrooms. It didn’t take
long. I got myself and the pans into the elevator and pushed the
button. I no sooner left the fourth floor than the lights went out
and the elevator stopped running. I lit a match and looked for an
emergency button, but there wasn’t any. Feeling hurried, I began
beating on the elevator door and shouting. After quite some time,
I heard some voices, and after that the voice of my hostess. She
said that word was being sent to the contractor who had installed
the elevator and did I want something to read? I said that it was
quite dark and that I didn’t require any reading matter. The
contractor never arrived, but eventually all of the servants,
including the cook, the chauffeur, and the doorman, went down to
the basement and by their joint efforts sent me inch by inch back
up to the fourth floor. The first thing I did was to reheat the
mushrooms. As we walked downstairs together, Muriel Errera asked
me not to mention the incident to any of the guests. When I arrived
with the frying pans in the candle-lit dining room, everyone was
eating dessert. |