Spite of all this, I still debated with myself whether to engage the
room for the night. I should have liked to stay; the thought of a
sunny morning here on the height strongly allured me, and it seemed
a shame to confess myself beaten by an Italian inn. On the other
hand, the look of the people did not please me; they had surly,
forbidding faces. I glanced at the door--no lock. Fears, no doubt,
were ridiculous; yet I felt ill at ease. I would decide after seeing
the sort of fare that was set before me.
The meal came with no delay. First, a dish of great _peperoni_ cut
up in oil. This gorgeous fruit is never much to my taste, but I had
as yet eaten no such _peperoni_ as those of Squillace; an hour or
two afterwards my mouth was still burning from the heat of a few
morsels to which I was constrained by hunger. Next appeared a dish
for which I had covenanted--the only food, indeed, which the
people had been able to offer at short notice--a stew of pork and
potatoes. Pork (_maiale_) is the staple meat of all this region;
viewing it as Homeric diet, I had often battened upon such flesh
with moderate satisfaction.
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