This Meal Marks The Termination Of My Daily Tasks; Nothing Serious Is
Allowed To Engage My Attention, Once That Repast
Is ended; I call for a
chair and sit down at one of the small marble-topped tables in the
Open
street and watch the crowd as it floats around me, smoking a Neapolitan
cigar and imbibing, alternately, ices and black coffee until, towards
midnight, a final bottle of vino di Ciro is uncorked - fit seal for the
labours of the day.
One might say much in praise of Calabrian wine. The land is full of
pleasant surprises for the cenophilist, and one of these days I hope to
embody my experiences in the publication of a wine-chart of the province
with descriptive text running alongside - the purchasers of which, if
few, will certainly be of the right kind. The good Dr. Barth - all praise
to him! - has already done something of the kind for certain parts of
Italy, but does not so much as mention Calabria. And yet here nearly
every village has its own type of wine and every self-respecting family
its own peculiar method of preparation, little known though they be
outside the place of production, on account of the octroi laws which
strangle internal trade and remove all stimulus to manufacture a good
article for export. This wine of Ciro, for instance, is purest nectar,
and so is that which grows still nearer at hand in the classical vale of
the Neto and was praised, long ago, by old Pliny; and so are at least
two dozen more.
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