. Gondola days, by F. Hopkinson Smith; . dingto his own particular needs, sym-pathies, or tastes. All the ar-tists, architects, and musiciansmeet at Florians ; all the Venetians go tothe Quadri; the Germans and late Austrians,to the Bauer-Grunwald; the stay-over-nights,to the Oriental on the Riva; the stevedores,to the Veneta Marina below the Arsenal; andmy dear friend Luigi and his fellow tramps,to a little hole in the wall on the Via Gari-baldi. These caffes are scattered everywhere, fromthe Public Garden to the Mestre bridge ; allkinds of caffes for all kinds of people — rich,not so rich, p
. Gondola days, by F. Hopkinson Smith; . dingto his own particular needs, sym-pathies, or tastes. All the ar-tists, architects, and musiciansmeet at Florians ; all the Venetians go tothe Quadri; the Germans and late Austrians,to the Bauer-Grunwald; the stay-over-nights,to the Oriental on the Riva; the stevedores,to the Veneta Marina below the Arsenal; andmy dear friend Luigi and his fellow tramps,to a little hole in the wall on the Via Gari-baldi. These caffes are scattered everywhere, fromthe Public Garden to the Mestre bridge ; allkinds of caffes for all kinds of people — rich,not so rich, poor, poorer, and the very of them serve only a cup of coffee, twolittle flat lumps of sugar, a hard, brown roll,and a glass of water — always a glass of add a few syrups and cordials, with asiphon of seltzer. Others indulge in thecheaper wines of the country, Brindisi, Chi-anti, and the like, and are then known as wine-shops. Very few serve any spirits, except aspoonful of cognac with the coffee Waterii6 ^(f^. is the universal beverage, and in summer this Som<:is cooled by ice and enriched by simple ^^^^f^^^syrups of peach, orange, and are rarely taken and intemperance ispractically unknown. In an experience ofmany years, I have not seen ten drunken men,— never one drunken woman, — and then onlyin September, when the strong wine fromBrindisi is brought in bulk and sold over theboats rail, literally by the bucket, to whoeverwill buy. In the ristoranti— caffes, in our sense— isserved an array of eatables that would puzzlethe most expert of gourmands. There will bemacaroni, of course, in all forms, and risotto ina dozen different ways, and soups with weird,uncanny little devil-fish floating about in them,and salads of every conceivable green thingthat can be chopped up in a bowl and drownedin olive oil; besides an assortment of cheeseswith individualities of perfume that beggarany similar collection outside of Holland. Some
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