When King Solomon was stripped of his throne — cast out by Ashmedai, the king of the demons, and forced to wander his own kingdom as a beggar — he discovered that hospitality has two registers.

The rich invited him in. They set out fine dishes. They fed him the kind of meal he would have once arranged for visiting kings. But as they served, they talked. They reminded him of what he had been. They described his former palace, his former wives, his former wealth. They gestured, kindly, at the height from which he had fallen.

Solomon rose from their tables hungrier than he sat down. The food was good. The reminding was unbearable. Every bite tasted like the loss of the kingdom.

Then he came to the homes of the poor. They had little to offer — a piece of bread, a cup of water, a bowl of boiled beans. They set these before him without ceremony. They did not mention his past. They did not compare the small meal to his former banquets. They simply fed him what they had and let him eat in peace.

Solomon left their tables consoled.

Gaster's Exempla #246 preserves the teaching. A feast that keeps reminding the guest of his fall is poorer than a crust given in silence.