“I don’t blame Drew,” he told himself.
They were invited to take seats before a small square table covered with a cloth of snowy linen. At once a steaming platter was set before them.
“But what’s on the platter?” Johnny asked himself. “Dumplings in meat gravy?”
It was far more than that. The finest of chicken meat, run through a grinder, some fine chopped veal; carrots cut fine, and who knows what else of viands and seasoning had been mixed together and used as the filling for small, turnover pies. These had been boiled for half an hour in salt water. After that they were smothered in rich gravy. A layer of meat pies, then one of gravy, then pies again until they stood a foot high on the platter.
But then, who can describe ravioli a la Tuscany? It is the proudest dish of Italians, and they are an exceedingly proud people.
For a full half hour the time was spent between small talk, and much eating.
As Johnny pushed back his chair with a sigh of regret, Mrs. Ramacciotti put her hand to her hair, and said in a sympathetic tone:
“Your head. What could have happened to it?”
“Haven’t you heard?” exclaimed Drew. “Some gangster beat him up last night.”
“Oh, the miserable ones!” Madame spread her hands in horror. “But why? He is only a boy.”