likeness to all beautiful Frenchwomen. Still we might often observe that by all these the real thing itself is only regarded as a secondary affair, that the roast is not worth so much as the gravy, and that here taste, grace, and elegance are the principal and principle.
Does not the yellow fat, passionately spiced and flavoured, humorously garnished and yet yearning ideal cookery of Italy, express to the life the whole character of Italian beauties? Oh, how I often long for the Lombard stuffados and zampettis, for the fegatellis, tagliarinis, and broccolis of blessed Tuscany. All swims in oil, delicate and tender, and trills the sweet melodies of Rossini, and weeps from onion perfume and desire. But macaroni must thou eat with thy fingers, and then it is called—Beatrice![1]
I often think of Italy, and oftenest by night. The day before yesterday I dreamed that I was there—a checquered harlequin, and lay all lazy under a weeping willow. The hanging sprays of
- ↑ Stuffado (correctly stufáto), stewed meat or ragout; zampétti di castrato, or di porco, sheeps' feet or pettitoes; fegatello, a bit of liver rolled up in its caul; tagliarini, hashes or minces, also a kind of khibab; brocoli, same as in English. None of these, however, are first-class dishes or delicacies, and they indicate that Heine had very little knowledge of Italian cookery of the better class. But of all this one may say, Nous avons changé tout cela. Now there is hardly a first-class hotel in Italy where there is more than a very occasional Italian dish ever served. The cuisine was much changed even in the Forties.—Translator.
