In front of him stood four wax candles (all Orientals
hate drinking in any but a bright light), and a tray containing a basin
of stuff like soup maigre, a dish of cold stewed meat, and two bowls of
Salatah,[FN#27] sliced cucumber, and curds.
The "materials" peeped out
of an iron pot filled with water; one was a long, thin, white-glass
flask of 'Araki, the other a bottle of some strong
[p.136]perfume. Both were wrapped up in wet rags, the usual
refrigerator.
Ali Agha welcomed me politely, and seeing me admire the preparations,
bade me beware how I suspected an Albanian of not knowing how to drink;
he made me sit by him on the bed, threw his dagger to a handy distance,
signalled me to do the same, and prepared to begin the bout. Taking up
a little tumbler, in shape like those from which French postilions used
to drink la goutte, he inspected it narrowly, wiped out the interior
with his forefinger, filled it to the brim, and offered it to his
guest[FN#28] with a bow. I received it with a low salam, swallowed its
contents at once, turned it upside down in proof of fair play, replaced
it upon the floor, with a jaunty movement of the arm, somewhat like a
pugilist delivering a "rounder," bowed again, and requested him to help
himself. The same ceremony followed on his part.
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