Behemoth cut himself a slice of pineapple, salted and peppered it, ate it and chased it down with a second glass of spirit with a flourish that earned a round of applause.

After Margarita's second glassful, the light in the candelabra burned brighter, and the coals in the fireplace glowed hotter, yet she did not feel the least drunk. As her white teeth bit into the meat, Margarita savoured the delicious juice that poured from it and watched Behemoth smearing an oyster with mustard.

"If I were you, I should put a grape on top of it, too," said Hella, digging the cat in the ribs.

"Kindly don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs," Behemoth replied. "I know how to behave at table, so mind your own business."

"Oh, how nice it is to dine like this, at home," tinkled Koroviev's voice, "just among friends . . . "

"No, Goluboy," said the cat. "I like the ball – it's so grand and exciting."

"It's not in the least exciting, and not very grand either, and those idiotic bears and the tigers in the bar – they nearly gave me migraine with their roaring," said Woland.

"Of course, messieur," said the cat. "If you think it wasn't very grand, I immediately find myself agreeing with you."

"And so I should think," replied Woland.

"I was joking," said the cat meekly, "and as for those tigers, I'll have them roasted."

"You can't eat tiger meat," said Hella.

"Think so? Well, let me tell you a story," retorted the cat. Screwing up his eyes with pleasure, he told a story of how he had once spent nineteen days wandering in the desert and his only food had been the meat of a tiger he had killed. They all listened with fascination, and when Behemoth came to the end of his story they all chorused in unison:

"Liar!"

-- The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

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