The skinny servitor brought a narghili, and I got him to take it out again without wasting any time about it.

Then he brought the world-renowned Turkish coffee that poets have sung so rapturously for many generations, and I seized upon it as the last hope that was left of my old dreams of Eastern luxury.

It was another fraud.

Of all the unchristian beverages that ever passed my lips, Turkish coffee is the worst.

The cup is small, it is smeared with grounds; the coffee is black, thick, unsavory of smell, and execrable in taste.