luncheon of cold chicken, and Angelo Masti, the
peasant in charge, would hurry in with a large,
flat, cylindrical cheese, the pecorino of the
neighbourhood, with a basket of figs and late
peaches, tinged with green, and grapes, all still
warm from the sun – some of these being of the
kind called fragole, the small, plump, blue
grapes, so different from others in their internal
texture, and in their taste, which recalls that of
the wood strawberry, that they might be fruit
from the planet Mars or Venus – or a huge flask,
covered in dry, dusty rushes, of the excellent red
wine of the Castle itself. Presently, too, a very
strong pungent scent approaching us indicated
that Angelo had just bought a large clothful of
white truffles from a boy outside, who had been
collecting them in the woods. (The white variety
is only found, I believe, in Italy, and most
commonly in Piedmont and Tuscany, and round
Parma: it is coarser than the black, and, in its
capacity to impregnate a dish, more resembles
garlic, a fine grating of it on the top of any
substance being sufficient.) His wife would cook
ff
(ff)
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