A dog's heart (A Monstrous Story) / Собачье сердце (Чудовищная история). Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Булгаков

Filippovich, everyone says that it’s quite decent now. Sixty proof[31].”

      “But vodka must be eighty proof, not sixty, first of all,” Filipp Filippovich interrupted with a lecture. “And secondly, God only knows what they may have added to it. Can you predict what they could come up with?”

      “Anything at all,” the bitten one said confidently.

      “I am of the same opinion,” added Filipp Filippovich and tossed the contents of his glass as a single lump into his throat. “Eh… Mmm… Doctor Bormental, I entreat you: take this thing instantly, and if you say it’s not… then I will be your mortal enemy for life. ‘From Seville to Granada…’”

      With those words, he hooked something resembling a small dark loaf of bread on his palmate silver fork. The bitten one followed his example. Filipp Filippovich’s eyes glowed.

      “Is this bad?” Filipp Filippovich asked, chewing. “Is it? You tell me, esteemed doctor.”

      “It’s exquisite,” the bitten one replied sincerely.

      “Of course. Please note, Ivan Arnoldovich, that only the remaining landowners not yet slaughtered by the Bolsheviks use cold hors d’oeuvres[32] or soup as zakuski for vodka.[33] Any even slightly self-respecting person operates with hot zakuski. And of the hot zakuski of Moscow, this is number one. They used to be prepared marvellously once upon a time at the Slavyansky Bazaar. Here!”

      “You’re giving the dog food from the table,” a woman’s voice sounded, “and then you won’t be able to lure him out of here with a fresh-baked round loaf.”

      “It’s all right. The poor thing was starved.” Filipp Filippovich used his fork to serve the dog the titbit, which was accepted with prestidigitatorial agility, and then tossed the fork with a clatter into the rinse bowl.

      Next, steam redolent of crayfish rose from the plates; the dog sat in the shade of the tablecloth with the air of a watchman at a gunpowder warehouse, while Filipp Filippovich tucked the tail of the taut napkin into his collar and preached: “Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a tricky thing. One must know how to eat, and just imagine, the majority of people don’t know how at all. One needs to know not only what to eat but when and how.” (Filipp Filippovich waved his spoon significantly.) “And what to say, yes! If you care about your digestion, here is good advice – do not talk about Bolshevism or medicine while eating. And, God forbid, don’t read Soviet newspapers before dinner!”