"Hardly," said Crowley dryly. "I am accustomed to eating at the Ritz Carlton, not bloody Thompson's Cafeteria in Leeds. This is supposed to be a well-regarded establishment and yet you make people stagger away from their table like they've eaten a bowling ball. What do you do in here? Boil everything? There's not a famine going on, you know."

He thought about that for a moment. "Well, probably not. I don't think Adam would allow one anyway."

Afraid he was losing the thrust of his argument, Crowley returned to the point. "I'm sure your great-grandmother did a fine job in teaching you how to survive a depression, but it's time to expand your horizons. Ever heard of a little place called France where they prepare something called food?"