Scene 4

The chef carved out slices from the roast and the leg, apportioned the fish and chicken, arranged vegetables, salad and croquettes around the meat and poured the sauce over them in the most artistic fashion – all this for a bunch of visibly drunken men clad in perfect suits made by Armani or Joop, between whom sat gazelle-slender blondes who were obviously seeking to maintain their figures on a diet of cigarettes.
«Maille, what a surprise, how wonderful – my God, I'm really sorry, I cannot move out of my kitchen just now,» stuttered Ruslan in his charmingly hesitating French, wiping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his kitchen overalls.
«There's much to do, isn't there, for the class enemy.»
«Please, Maille, can you forgive me?»
«I can for sure – but can Lenin?»
«We'll talk when I'm finished, this evening, at my place. Here's the key.» Then the master chef was off, gliding through the rows of guests, greeting them, cracking little jokes and receiving words of praise for his culinary skills.

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