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 Concordia, being the only restaurant,
daily 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.
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