William Somerset Maugham - the luncheon

The Luncheon 

William Somerset Maugham 1874-1965

I caught sight of her at the play and, in answer to her 

beckoning, I went over during the interval and sat down 

beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if 

someone had not mentioned her name I hardly think I would 

have recognised her. She addressed me brightly. 

‘Well, it’s many years since we first met. How time 

does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. 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 tiny apartment in the Latin quarter overlooking a 

cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep 

the body and soul together. She had read a book of mine 

and had written to me about it. I answered, thanking 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; but her time was limited and the only free 

moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was 

spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give 

her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? 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 I was too young to have 

learned to say no to a woman. Few men, I may add, learn 

this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to 

a woman what they say. I had eighty francs (gold francs) to 

last me the rest of the month, and a modest luncheon 

should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the 

next two weeks I could manage well enough. 

I answered that I would meet my friend—by 

correspondence—at Foyot’s on Thursday at half-past twelve. 

She was not so young as I expected and in appearance 

imposing rather than attractive. She was, in fact, a woman 

of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden 

and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me 

the impression of having more teeth, white and large and 

even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She 

was talkative but since she seemed inclined to talk about 

me I was prepared to be an attentive listener. 

I was startled when the bill of fare was brought for the 

prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But 

she reassured 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 bill of fare, 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 caviare. I never mind caviare.’ 

My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare 

but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by 

all means to bring caviare. 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 promptly. 

‘Except white wine,’ she proceeded as though I had not 

spoken. 

‘These French white wines are so light. They’re 

wonderful for the digestion.’ 

‘What would you like?’ I asked, hospitable still, but not 

exactly effusive. 

She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white 

teeth. 

‘My doctor won’t let me drink anything but Champagne.’ 

I fancy I turned a trifle 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.’ She ate the caviare and she ate the salmon. 

She talked gaily 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 that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. 

I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example 

and just eat one thing? I’m sure you’d feel ever so much 

better for it.’ 

‘I am only going to eat one thing,’ I said, as the waiter 

came again with the bill of fare. 

She waved him aside with an airy gesture. 

‘No, no, I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite, 

I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an 

excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t 

possibly eat anything more—unless they had some of those 

giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without 

having some of them.’ 

My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I 

knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had 

often watered at the sight of them. 

‘Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant 

asparagus,’ I asked the waiter. 

I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy 

smile spread over his broad, priest-like face and he assured 

me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender, 

that it was a marvel.

‘I’m not in the least hungry,’ my guest sighed, ‘but if 

you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus.’ 

I ordered them. 

‘Aren’t you going to have any?’ 

‘No, I never eat asparagus.’ 

‘I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact 

is, you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.’ 

We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized 

me: it was not a question now how much money I should 

have left over for the rest of the month but whether I had 

enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself 

ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I 

could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much 

I had and if the bill came to me I made up my mind that I 

would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry 

start up and say it had been picked. Of course, it would be 

awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the 

bill; then the only thing would be to leave my watch and 

say I would come back and pay later. 

The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, 

succulent, and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter 

tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Johovah were tickled 

by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched 

the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in 

large voluptuous mouthfuls, and, in my polite way, I 

discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans. 

At last she finished. 

‘Coffee,’ I said... 

‘Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee,’ she answered. 

I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself 

and ice-cream and coffee for her. 

‘You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in,’ 

she said, as she ate the ice-cream. ‘One should always get 

up from a meal feeling one could eat a little more.’ 

‘Are you still hungry?’ I asked faintly. 

‘Oh, no, I’m not hungry; you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I 

have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I 

never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking 

for you.’ 

‘Oh, I see!’

Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting 

for the coffee, the headwaiter, with an ingratiating smile 

on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full 

of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; 

they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely 

peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they 

cost. I knew too—a little later, for my guest, going on with 

her conversation, absentmindedly took one. 

‘You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat’ 

—my one miserable little chop— ‘and you can’t eat any 

more. But I’ve just had a snack and I shall enjoy a peach.’ 

The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only 

enough for a quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an 

instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew 

that she thought me mean. But when I walked out of the 

restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a 

penny in my pocket. 

‘Follow my example,’ she said as we shook hands, ‘and 

never eat more than one thing for luncheon.’ 

‘I’ll do better than that,’ I retorted. ‘I’ll eat nothing for 

dinner tonight.’ 

‘Humorist’, she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. ‘You’re 

quite a humorist!’ 

But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that 

I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a 

hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result 

with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone.