" Stage one, when it smacks of glue; stage two,
when it has a flavour of inferior beef tea, say 11.30 a.m.; stage three,
when it resembles nothing but the gravy of the most delicious beef
steak. That is about 2.30, and your lunch some hours in retard. We
had reached stage three, and even Jo succumbed to the charms of the
"Tab."
Famished we came to a cafe.
"Eggs?" we gasped to the host.
"Nema" (haven't got any), he replied.
"Milk?"
"Nema."
"Cheese?" crescendo.
"Nema."
"Bread?" fortissimo.
"Nema."
Despairing we swallowed three more luncheon tablets each and whined for
tea. Ramases, who seemed to get along on tea alone, promised us a
well-stocked cafe in an hour and a half.
The second cafe was purely Albanian. We climbed up some rickety stairs
into a room which had--strange to relate--a fireplace. About the room
was a sleeping dais where three or four black and white ruffians were
couched. There was a little window with a deep seat into which we
squeezed and loudly demanded eggs, bread and cheese.
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