Terrine for Tatra, furring as he looked at it with a new bluish mould. And on Aophe’s plate, the split, sauce-dribbled lobster twitched. Noodle stared glassily at it, for once her big pugtongue hidden. A clink of a glass against teeth. That was Mar. She wasn’t always poised: her own dinner, a baked potato topped with plain cottage cheese, had just sprouted eyes.
The steak tartare, too, was more wrong than anyone cared to admit.