But the pork of Squillace defeated me;
it smelt abominably, and it was tough as leather. No eggs were to be
had no macaroni; cheese, yes--the familiar _cacci cavallo_ Bread
appeared in the form of a fiat circular cake, a foot in diameter,
with a hole through the middle; its consistency resembled that of
cold pancake. And the drink! At least I might hope to solace myself
with an honest draught of red wine. I poured from the thick decanter
(dirtier vessel was never seen on table) and tasted. The stuff was
poison. Assuredly I am far from fastidious; this, I believe, was the
only occasion when wine has been offered me in Italy which I could
not drink. After desperately trying to persuade myself that the
liquor was merely "rough," that its nauseating flavour meant only a
certain coarse quality of the local grape, I began to suspect that
it was largely mixed with water--the water of Squillace!
Notwithstanding a severe thirst, I could not and durst not drink.
Very soon I made my way to the kitchen, where my driver, who had
stabled his horses, sat feeding heartily; he looked up with his
merry smile, surprised at the rapidity with which I had finished.
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