And then, with an odd, rueful smile, he added: “Or rather, even more of an inferno than it already is to those of us doomed to inhabit it.”

Asher’s characterization of his culinary offerings as “pitiful” proved to be—not the customary, self-deprecating protestation that etiquette demands of a dinner host—but strict and wholly warranted truth. Guiding us by candlelight through the shadowy corridors and cavernous chambers of his vast and sprawling mansion, our pale and wraithlike host ushered us into a gloomy, low-ceilinged kitchen, where, within a smoky fireplace, a large iron cauldron sat upon a bed of glowing coals, sending forth thick and exceedingly malodorous fumes. As Crockett and I seated ourselves at an ancient, benchlike table that occupied the center of the room, Asher bustled about the kitchen, fetching pewter bowls and tarnished utensils, which he set before us, along with heavy glass tumblers and a dark, dusty decanter of wine.

“What else?” he wondered aloud, while rubbing his hands in his characteristic gesture. “Ah, yes!” He hurried across the room to a sideboard that stood in the shadows; whereupon we heard him exclaim, “Shoo! Shoo!” This ejaculation was instantly followed by the frantic scrabbling sound of dispersing rodents. Seconds later, he returned with a wooden platter that held the remnants of a dark, crusty loaf, pocked with dozens of miniature teethmarks.

“Now,” Asher said, setting the bread down upon the table. “For the pièce de résistance”

As our host stepped over to the fireplace, Crockett directed an interrogatory look at me across the table and whispered, “For the what?”

“The main dish,” I explained in language suitable to the frontiersman’s understanding. Reaching for the decanter, I carefully filled each of our glasses nearly to the top, then set the receptacle back upon the table.

Moments later, our host returned with a large ceramic crock out of which protruded the handle of a tarnished silver ladle. Grasping the ladle in one hand, he used it to fill each of our bowls with a bubbling portion of some pungent, viscous mixture, evidently of that variety commonly known in the South as a gumbo. The appearance, texture, and aroma of this concoction were so wholly unappetizing that—in spite of the audible rumblings issuing from my abdominal region—I could scarcely bring myself to sample it. Only the dictates of civilized etiquette compelled me to spoon a modicum into my mouth. In no way to my surprise, its taste turned out to be in utter conformity with its other attributes—which is to say, repellent in the extreme.

Its vileness, however, seemed in no wise to deter the appetite of the frontiersman, who proceeded to empty his bowl with avidity.