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.
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