The Count is coming to dinner. The silver is polished, the ovens have run since dawn, and your pantry holds a line of identical pies — cherries here, almonds there, cake everywhere. One thing is whispered of the Count wherever he dines: he counts. Every palate he might harbour is written on the cards below — three, or on grand evenings four — each precise to the point. Which is truly his, no one in the kitchen knows.

Each course, cut one wedge: drag a finger around the rim — or set two fingers on the pie at once. A cut offers a choice — wedge against rest — and nothing reaches the table until you put that choice to the Count, so redraw as often as you like. Once served, he takes whichever piece he scores higher; if the pieces tie, he shrugs and you see that too.

His choices are all you will ever learn — and the table keeps its own counsel: no palate is marked off while you play. The reckoning is yours; only the verdict shows who survived. Cut where the palates disagree — a piece every palate would take teaches you nothing.

Some pies keep their toppings tidy; others mingle them — and a pie that looks busier may say less.

When you are ready, name the palate — or rule that no cut of this pie can tell the survivors apart. A proven limit is worth as much as a naming. Haste is worth nothing; neither is surrender while a telling cut remains.

The larder is deep: serve as many courses as you please. But a sharp knife names in few — and the verdict will say how yours compared.