“This house, for example, is built of lava, this pavement is lava, those columns are lava, that elephant over the fountain is sculptured in lava, this is lava, that is lava, everything is lava; even those—”
“Stop, stop,” interrupted the buffo, “for pity’s sake stop, or I shall begin to think that you and I also are made of lava.”
We reached the Birraria Svizzera and sat down.
“Are you hungry, Buffo?”
“I am always hungry. My subterranean road is always ready.”
“That’s capital,” I replied. “And what particular fugitive would you like to send down it now?”
“Seppia and interiori di pollo,” he replied without hesitation.
Now the first of these is cuttle-fish and looks as though the cook in sending to table something that ought to have been thrown away had tried to conceal it by emptying a bottle of ink into the dish; the second is un-selected giblets. So I replied:
“Very well; but I don’t think I’ll join you. No one will believe I am a Sicilian unless I eat maccaroni, and perhaps I will have a veal cutlet afterwards; that will be more suited to my subterranean road.”
“You had better have what I have,” said he, “it is exquisite.”