14/03/2026
The Luncheon — by William Somerset Maugham
I caught sight of her at the theatre, and she greeted me warmly.
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
It took me a moment, but then I did remember. It had happened many years before, when I was a young writer living in Paris. I was poor at the time, earning very little money from my writing.
She had written me a letter from Paris saying that she admired my work and would like to have lunch with me. She suggested we meet at a restaurant.
I was flattered. A woman who admired my writing wanted to meet me. I was young and eager for appreciation. I wrote back suggesting a modest restaurant, but she insisted we meet at Foyot’s, a very expensive restaurant that I knew I could hardly afford.
Still, I agreed.
When the day came, I had only eighty francs in my pocket. That was enough for a modest lunch, but certainly not for a grand meal at such a place.
When she arrived, she was a large woman, talkative and confident. As soon as we sat down, she told me cheerfully:
“I never eat anything for luncheon.”
I was relieved. That meant the bill would be small.
“But I do like a little salmon,” she added.
The waiter brought the salmon. I looked at the menu and saw that salmon was expensive. I felt nervous, but I said nothing.
She began eating with great enjoyment while telling me how important it was to eat lightly.
I ordered the cheapest thing I could find — a mutton chop.
While she was eating the salmon, she said:
“I never eat more than one thing for luncheon.”
Then she looked at the menu again.
“Unless, of course, you think I ought to have a little caviar. I never mind caviar.”
Caviar was even more expensive, but again I could not bring myself to refuse. The waiter brought a large serving of it.
As she ate, she continued talking about how one should never eat too much.
Then she suggested that we drink champagne.
“I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said, “except a little champagne.”
I was terrified now. My eighty francs would surely not cover this.
She finished the salmon, the caviar, and the champagne, all while explaining the importance of moderation in eating.
Then the waiter asked about the next course.
She said she would not eat anything more.
But when the waiter mentioned asparagus, her eyes lit up.
“I adore asparagus,” she said. “I never eat anything else.”
The asparagus was the most expensive item on the menu.
I sat there watching in horror while she ate it happily. I could not afford asparagus, so I stuck to my small mutton chop.
Finally she said she would have nothing more.
Then she added:
“I think a little ice cream would do you good.”
So she ordered ice cream and coffee.
When the bill finally came, my fears were confirmed. It took nearly all the money I had.
I paid the bill and left a small tip for the waiter.
For the rest of the month I had to live very cheaply. I ate almost nothing and survived mainly on bread.
But I never forgot that lunch.
Many years later I saw the same woman again.
She was enormously fat.
Today she weighs twenty-one stone.
