"I'm fixing an omelette, do you want one?"
"Sure, that sounds good. What are you putting in it?"
"Hmmm… What do you mean?"
"What type of filling do you have for the omelette?"
"What do you want?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe some cheese".
"Ok, I have that. Gruyere, is that ok?"
"And some onions and green peppers; sautéed of course."
"Ok…How about ham…umm…pancetta?"
"Mmm…sounds good. Man, I feel hungry…I think my mouth is watering."
"And…yes, I have some mushrooms…No! Truffles. I have truffles."
"Well, beggers can be choosers…at times like this."
The two agents were tied together, back to back, in a dingy basement of a rundown boarding house in a country far from home. They had missed more meals than they cared to acknowledge, and yet this little game seemed to ease the hunger pangs just a little.
"One pancetta and truffle omelette, my friend, as requested".
The blond announced it with a flourish, almost forgetting their surroundings. He'd learned to play these games as a boy, shutting out the sounds of bombs and marching soldiers. It was not above him now, in these circumstances, to entertain Napoleon with the simple art of pretending.
"Ahhh… Thank you, Illya. You've become quite the little chef, haven't you, tovarisch."
It was to Napoleon's credit that he was an apt student in the art of play.