Joey, impressed by the magnitude of the order, got down from his perch in the cart and helped to serve the guests.

And he passed in and out among the expectant crowd, helping them to make a choice, like a chef anxious to please even the most fastidious palates.
Cups, saucers, plates, and basins were pressed into service until Mrs Yabsley's stock ran out; the last served were forced to hold their delicacy wrapped in a scrap of paper in their hands, the hot grease sweating through the thin covering on to their fingers.

The ladies hesitated, fearful of being thought vulgar if they ate in their usual manner; but Mrs Yabsley seeing their embarrassment, cried out that fingers were made before forks, and bit a huge piece out of her pie.
Then the feast began in silence, except for the sound of chewing.

Joey had surpassed himself.

The peas melted in your mouth, the piecrusts were a marvel, and the saveloys were done to a turn.