“But twenty-five years!” I exclaimed. “Look at the seal and the date. It comes from the kitchen of the celebrated André Poullardier of Rouen. But eat sparingly. It is very rich and there are other surprises for you.” Another dish hermetically sealed was opened in a similar manner, and displayed three tender trout _au bleu_ cooked in white wine and seasoned with some herbs that recalled sarriette and cress. “Acquilla, I am relieved, relieved and delighted,” I said after the first gustatory satisfaction. “My fears were groundless. Your cook is worthy of the progress of science.” “Cook? I have no cook.” “But--” “My dear Bogardus,” Acquilla replied with an evident satisfaction at my increasing amazement. “We have progressed beyond cooks and the hazards of cooking. There are great central restaurants for every day. But all you taste tonight is imported from France, and if I say it, it was prepared by the greatest chefs of the last fifty years. What, you are astonished? But there is nothing more simple. There is no greater difficulty today in preserving a dish at exactly the temperature at which it should be served, than to keep the human body in a process of refrigeration a hundred years. You see?” “I see at once,” I replied, for already I could feel in my mind a new attitude, the scientific attitude of the 22nd century. “But the mechanics interest me.” “I shall show you through my culinary library--in its day it was quite famous. The fish is by Grisset of Tours. No one has ever surpassed him in his specialty. After this I am offering you as a special treat, for I have only fifty examples of it left, the masterpiece of Raoul Binard signed by him 2145 as you will see; _ortolans farcis au truffles_, and braised in endives and Beaujolais. For dessert you will have a pineapple glacéed in madeira and champagne. The wine is worthy of the rest, I assure you. The vintages are now exceedingly rare.” The wines, as she had prophesied, were fragrant and delicious; a mild white wine that resembled an excellent Meursault and a red with the flavor of Romany, only clearer and not so heady. “I must confess that never in my life have I dined so miraculously,” I said, reclining gorgeously. “You are looking for tobacco?” said Acquilla, noticing my look. “I had hoped?” “There it is before you.” She leaned over, took up a thin, delicately modelled pipe, and filling it with a fine brown powder, offered it to me, at the same time arranging one for herself. The extract, for such I judged it to be, was of a flavor superior to anything I had ever known before, about the strength of a vintage Havana cigar. “Content, Bogardus?” “Blissfully.” I settled back languidly among the cushions. “And now tell me. How am I here?”