a dozen” private carriages might be seen making the fashionable drive
on the Strada Regina Margherita. But it is not easy to imagine luxury
or refinement in these dreary, close-packed streets. Judging from our
table at the
were poor and monotonous and infamously cooked. Almost the only
palatable thing offered was an enormous radish. Such radishes I never
saw: they were from six to eight inches long, and more than an inch
thick, at the same time thoroughly crisp and sweet. The wine of the
country had nothing to recommend it. It was very heady, and smacked of
drugs rather than of grape juice.
But men must eat, and the
entertained several citizens, besides guests staying in the house. One
of these visitants excited my curiosity; he was a middle-aged man of
austere countenance; shabby in attire, but with the bearing of one
accustomed to command. Arriving always at exactly the same moment, he
seated himself in his accustomed place, drew his hat over his brows,
and began to munch bread. No word did I hear him speak. As soon as he
appeared in the doorway, the waiter called out, with respectful hurry,
“Don Ferdinando!” and in a minute his first course was served. Bent
like a hunchback over the table, his hat dropping ever lower, until it
almost hid his eyes, the Don ate voraciously. His dishes seemed to be
always the same, and as soon as he had finished the last mouthful, he
rose and strode from the room.
Don is a common title of respect in Southern Italy; it dates of course
from the time of Spanish rule. At a favourable moment I ventured to
inquire of the waiter who Don Ferdinando might be; the only answer,
given with extreme discretion, was “A proprietor.” If in easy
circumstances, the Don must have been miserly, his diet was wretched
beyond description. And in the manner of his feeding he differed
strangely from the ordinary Italian who frequents restaurants.
Wonderful to observe, the representative diner. He always seems to know
exactly what his appetite demands; he addresses the waiter in a
preliminary discourse, sketching out his meal, and then proceeds to
fill in the minutiae. If he orders a common dish, he describes with
exquisite detail how it is to be prepared; in demanding something out
of the way he glows with culinary enthusiasm. An ordinary bill of fare
never satisfies him; he plays variations upon the theme suggested,
divides or combines, introduces novelties of the most unexpected kind.
As a rule, he eats enormously (I speak only of dinner), a piled dish of
macaroni is but the prelude to his meal, a whetting of his appetite.
Throughout he grumbles, nothing is quite as it should be, and when the
bill is presented he grumbles still more vigorously, seldom paying the
sum as it stands. He rarely appears content with his entertainment, and
often indulges in unbounded abuse of those who serve him. These
characteristics, which I have noted more or less in every part of
Italy, were strongly illustrated at the
consist with a fundamental good humour, but at Cotrone the tone of the
dining-room was decidedly morose. One man—he seemed to be a sort of
clerk—came only to quarrel. I am convinced that he ordered things
