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"And be thankful you haven't got a man to raise the dickens when the bill comes in." "Do you mean that?" asked Effie slowly, fixing Miss Weinstein with a thoughtful eye. "Surest thing you know. Say, girlie, let's go over to Klein's for lunch this noon. They have pot roast with potato pfannkuchen on Tuesdays, and we can split an order between us."
Inside Wagner's WALDCAFE at Connewitz, they sat closely packed round one of the wooden tables, and drank beer and coffee, and ate BERLINER PFANNKUCHEN. The great iron stove was almost red-hot; the ladies threw off their wrappings; cold faces glowed and burnt, and frozen hands tingled.
He hardly looked up on Maurice's entrance, and cut short the young man's apologetic beginnings. "Well, what is it? What brings you here?" As Maurice hesitated before the difficulty of plunging offhand into the object of his visit, Schwarz pointed with his knife at a chair: he could not speak, for he had just put the best part of a PFANNKUCHEN in his mouth, and was chewing hard.
She went back into her kitchen, and, after a brief absence, during which Frau Schwarz continued surreptitiously to scrutinise Maurice, came out carrying a large plateful of BERLINER PFANNKUCHEN. With these she crossed to an opposite room, and, as she there planked the plate down on the table, she announced the visitor. A surly voice muttered something in reply.
Schwarz was sitting at the table with his head on his hand, tracing the pattern of the cloth with the blade of his knife. A coffee-service stood on a tray before him; he had just refilled his cup, and helped himself from the dish of PFANNKUCHEN, which, freshly baked, sent an inviting odour through the room.
Take up the corners, fasten them firmly, also pinch all along the edges and lay in a buttered pan, let them rise half an hour before baking. Spread them with melted butter, and bake a nice brown. Make the dough same as for Berliner Pfannkuchen, and when well risen roll out on a floured board one-half inch thick, cut in triangles, lay on floured dishes or board to rise.
I discovered that it was she who bakes the melting, golden German Pfannkuchen on Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the crisp and hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump ducklings, and the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil soup and the rosy sausages nestling coyly in their bed of sauerkraut.
'I am, said he, 'a Saxon by birth, my father being pastor of the village of Pfannkuchen, where I imbibed the first rudiments of knowledge.
As I unpacked I thought of my cosy room at Knapfs', and as I thought I took my head out of my trunk and sank down on the floor with a satin blouse in one hand, and a walking boot in the other, and wanted to bellow with loneliness. There came to me dear visions of the friendly old yellow brocade chair, and the lamplight, and the fireplace, and Frau Nirlanger, and the Pfannkuchen.
Perhaps rents were too high. Perhaps, thought I, Frau Knapf had been too liberal with the butter in the stewed chicken. Perhaps there had been too many golden Pfannkuchen with real eggs and milk stirred into them, and with toothsome little islands of ruddy currant jelly on top. Perhaps there had been too much honest, nourishing food, and not enough boarding-house victuals.
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