Q Is for Quarry

herself. She handed a binder to me and a second to Henry. I thought they might be picture albums, but I opened the front cover and found myself staring at a handwritten menu done in a calligraphic script. "This is different," I remarked.
    "Is new menu. So I don't hef to tell every dish what I'm cooking. William wrote by hand and then went to photo copy shop and hed them print. You order anything you want and what you can't say in Henglish you point." She stood and looked at us expectantly. Since she'd returned from the cruise, her Henglish seemed to have gotten worse.
    Henry surveyed his menu, a curious expression crossing his face. I glanced at mine, running my gaze down the page. The dishes were listed first in Hungarian, complete with letter combinations and accent marks I'd never seen before. Under the Hungarian name for each dish there was the translation in English:
    Versenyi Batyus Ponty
    Carp in a Bundle
    Csuka Tejfeles Tormaval
    Pike Cooked in Horseradish Cream
    Hamis Oztokany
    Mock Venison
    Disznó Csülök Kaposztál
    Pigs Knuckles and Sauerkraut
    I couldn't wait to see what the crowd of softball rowdies was going to think about this.
    "You've outdone yourself, Rosie," Henry said.
    "Really," I said. "I can hardly choose."
    She seemed to wiggle with pleasure, order pad in hand. For a minute I thought she intended to lick her pencil point.
    Henry smiled at her blandly. "Why don't you give us a few minutes? This is a lot to take in."
    "You keep and I come beck."
    "Good idea."
    She moved away from our table and began to circle the room, distributing a menu at each booth and table along the way. Henry stared after her with something close to wonderment. "I guess this is what happens when you take someone on a cruise. She's come home inspired. If I didn't know her better, I'd say she was putting on airs."
    I set my menu aside. "That's the least of our worries. What are we going to do? I don't want to eat a pig knuckle with sauerkraut. That's disgusting."
    He looked at his menu again. "Listen to this one. 'Mazsolas es Gesztenyés Borjunyelv.' You know what that is? Cows Tongue with Chestnuts and Raisins."
    "Oh, that can't be true. Where do you see that?" I peered over at his menu, hoping it was somehow completely different.
    He pointed at an item under a column entitled "Specialities of the House."
    "Here's another one. Lemon Tripe. I forget what that is. Could be stomach or bowel."
    "What's the big deal with organ meats?"
    Rosie had completed her circuit and she now headed back to our table. "I hef idea. I prepare for you special. Big surprise."
    "No, no, no," Henry said. "I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. We'll just order from what's here. My goodness. So many interesting dishes. What are you having, Kinsey?"
    "Me? Oh. Well, actually on a night like this, I'd love a nice big bowl of soup and maybe noodles on the side. Could you do that for me?"
    "Easy. Of course. I give Shepherd's Soup. Is already make," she said, pausing to pencil an elaborate note on her order pad. She turned to Henry.
    "I think I'll hold off for now. I just had a bite before I came over here."
    "Little plate of dumplings? Jellied pork? Is fresh. Very good."
    "Don't tempt me. Maybe later. I'll just keep her company for now," he said.
    Rosie pursed her lips and then shrugged to herself. I thought she'd insist, but apparently decided to let him suffer. Neither of us said a word until she'd disappeared.
    I leaned forward. "Why didn't you tell me you were doing that? I could have said the same thing."
    "I blurted out the first thing that occurred to me. You were quick about it, too. Soup and noodles. That's safe. How can you go wrong?"
    My gaze strayed toward the kitchen. Mere seconds had passed, and Rosie was already using her backside to push her way through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining room, bearing a wide tray that held a shallow bowl of steaming soup.
    I said, "Oh, geez. Here she comes. I hate service this quick. It's like eating in a Chinese restaurant. You're in and out on the street again twenty minutes later."
    She crossed the room, setting the tray on the adjoining table, then placing the bowl in front of me. She tucked her hands under her apron and looked at me. "How you like?"
    "I haven't tried it yet." I fanned some of the steam toward my face, trying to define the odor. Burnt hair? Dog hide? "Gee, this smells great. What is it?"
    She peered at my bowl, identifying some of the diced ingredients. "Is parsnip,