“It will be better than cooking in some old landlady’s kitchen. Every time Joyce’s landlady lets Joyce use her kitchen, she invites herself to eat with us. That’s what I was about to tell you,” said Simple. “She eats like she never had a pot full of nothing herself. Sunday she slayed that succotash, murdered the beets, completely annihilated the candied sweet potatoes, and drunk a small gallon of coffee. When we got down to the dessert, she was too full to eat more than a ladle of jello, but she put whipped cream on that twice. I’m telling you, it were such a fine dinner, I do not blame that landlady much for scarffing. Joyce buys her vegetables and groceries downtown nearby where she works. The foods is better. Everything is two-three-four cents a pound higher in Harlem. And Joyce likes good groceries. When she gets through salting and seasoning, man, it is scrumptious! That girl is a cook.”

“Well,” I said, “you have given me an ample description of the dinner. But dinner tables are set as much for conversation as they are for eating. What did you good people talk about Sunday?”

“Politics,” said Simple. “November is political times, and Joyce’s big old fat landlady took over. She said all them years that she had been persuading all her roomers to vote Democratic, ain’t no precinct leader ever presented her with a mink coat, not even a rabbit skin, which is why she switched to Eisenhower. She says, ‘The Republicans can bring the country back to normal and keep it there.’

“‘You must think the Republicans is God,’ I said to her. ‘Back to normal would mean I could ride the bus for a nickel, get a shine for a dime, and buy a new suit almost any old time. You know can’t nobody bring them miracles to pass.’

“‘I knows no such thing,’ says Joyce’s landlady. ‘That is what politics is for, to bring things to pass. Building inspectors, health inspectors, all of them never bother me at all, since I’m in politics. They know I helps get out the vote, so they leave me alone—which is a miracle. And when I change my vote, every last roomer in my house had better vote like me, else out they goes.’

“‘That, madam,’ I says, ‘is against the law. You can’t make people vote your way.’

“‘Oh, can’t I?’ she says. ‘Now, take you, Mr. Semple, if you was running for Mayor of New York, you’d want me to swing my votes your way, wouldn’t you?’

“‘I’d appreciate it,’ I said. ‘Would you?’

“She leaned across the table and stated in a loud voice, ‘No! I would not! Never! No!’

“Which embarrassed Joyce—and made me mad.’

“So that is why you enjoyed the food more than you did the conversation,” I said.