...A few looks are exchanged.
"Shall we start? Whose turn is it today?"
"Mine."
"Not at all. Yours was the day before yesterday. You talked about macaroni with minced beef."
"That was Ilya Petrovich who talked about macaroni. My report was on veal cutlets with cauliflower. On Friday."
"Then it is your turn. Please begin. Attention, gentlemen!"
The gray figure bent over the table even more, making the huge black shadow on the wall quiver and shake. A tongue ran rapidly over parched lips, and a quiet, hoarse voice broke the deathly silence of the room.
"Five years ago -- I remember it as if it were yesterday -- I ordered fried navaga and a Hamburg-style steak, at Albert's. There were four pieces of navaga -- large pieces, fried in bread crumbs and butter, gentlemen! You understand, real butter, gentlemen. Butter! On one side lay a large clump of fried parsley; on the other, half a lemon. You know, a nice bright yellow lemon which is lighter on the side where it's been cut... You could just take it in your hand and squeeze it over the fish. But I did it like this: I would take the fork and a piece of bread (they served both dark and white bread, I swear) and deftly separate the thick sides of the navaga from the bone..."
"Navaga has only one bone, in the middle, shaped like a triangle," interjected a neighbor, panting. "Shhh! Don't interrupt. Well?"
"After cutting up the navaga -- and, you know, the skin was nicely toasted, very brittle, and completely covered with the bread crumbs -- I would pour myself a shot of vodka, and only then squirt some lemon juice onto a piece of fish... I would put a little bit of parsley on top -- just for the aroma, exclusively for the aroma -- drink the vodka, and immediately swallow some fish -- yum! And there was a French bun, you know, the really plump, soft kind, -- so I ate it too, along with the fish. And the fourth piece of fish -- I didn't even finish it, heh heh!"

"You didn't finish it ?!"
"Don't look at me like that, gentlemen. The Hamburg-style steak still lay ahead, don't forget. Do you know what that means, 'Hamburg-style'?"
"Is that with an omelet on top?"
"Exactly! It's made with only one egg; just for flavor. The steak was soft and juicy, yet resilient, slightly more well-done on one side, slightly rawer on the other. You remember what roasted meat smelled like, don't you? And there was lots and lots of gravy, really thick, too, and I loved taking a slice of white bread, dipping it into the gravy and, together with a tender piece of meat -- down the hatch!"
"Were there no fried potatoes?" moaned someone at the far end of the table, grabbing his head with both hands.
"That's the whole point -- there were! But, of course, we haven't gotten to that yet. There were also some horse-radish spears, and some capers; and on the other side, almost half the dish was filled with diced fried potatoes. Damned if I know why they soak up that beef gravy so well. So the pieces were each drenched in gravy on one end, and on the other, they were quite dry and even crunchy. I would cut myself some meat, dip some bread into the gravy, grab all of this with my fork, along with a bit of omelet, potatoes, and a pickle slice..."

The neighbor emitted a muffled roar, sprang to his feet, grabbed the speaker by the collar and, shaking him with his feeble hands, cried out:
"Beer! How could you not have washed this steak down with some strong, foamy beer?"
The speaker, in ecstasy, jumped up as well.
"Of course! A large, heavy mug of beer, with white foam on top, so thick that it stayed on your moustache. I would swallow some steak and potatoes, and then dive into the mug..."
Someone in the corner started softly sobbing:
"You shouldn't have had beer... Not beer, but red wine, slightly warmed! They had such a great Burgundy for 3.50 a bottle... You'd pour some into a glass and look at it against the light -- it would sparkle like a ruby, a real ruby..."