As Anshelm and Kazimir partake of a drink and a meal, there enters into the Gospoda a rather pathetic figure. He seems to have suffered a burn long in his past which removed three quarters of his hair and one of his ears, and he is lame in one foot so that as he shuffles along the foot lays on its side. He is wearing a black cloak, old and with a heavy vinegar smell, so much that Kazimir (who you remember lived in gutters part of his life) is thrown off his food for a minute or two.
"Do you have it?" asks the cripple eagerly, in a cracked voice.
"Aye," says the bartender, apparently quite familiar with the cripple and entirely accepting of him. "I've had it ready since this morning."
"Excellent, excellent," says the cripple. He waits impatiently, shuffling his poor foot, as the bartender reaches to the floor behind the bar and produces a large, black ceramic jar. He puts it on the counter. It would weigh, you would estimate, about eighteen pounds, about four gallons overall. The cripple embraces it in his arms, puts it on the floor, and opens the lid.
The odor is astounding. You thought the crippled smelled bad ... you're both compelled to let out a cry of anguish, quite uncontrollably. The cripple cackles over what he sees inside. "MOST wonderful," he mutters happily. He replaces the lid - much to your relief - and says to the bartender, "You are to be commended. The master will be very pleased."
"Tell your master that he is most welcome."
"I will, I will ..." Whereupon the cripple lifts the jar, hugs it to his chest and merrily heads on his way.
The bartender does not, as might be expected, make an apology about the inconvenience the little scene offered to your dining pleasure.