Giacomo scoffs at. Papa Giacomo wants only coffee, two or three big steaming cupfuls, plenty of salami and bread. Dio, good red meat, that's what makes the muscle for these hours of hard work. And just before he leaves, a good double-jigger of grappa in his last cup of coffee to fortify him against the bone-chilling blasts of these winter mornings. Good breakfasts, but unlike the breakfasts in the old country. Those were great bowls of soup warmed over from last night's supper, coffee - homemade from roasted and stone crushed barley grains,- a slab of polenta and a good sized wedge of pungent gorgonzola that had lain these three months in a dark corner of the crotta under swaths of clean sacking, ripening to a mottled green-white. He has made no gorgonzola in this country, but he has explained the procedure so many times that Giorgio, Pete and Marta swear that given the basic necessities they could make a cheese to please as discriminating an epicure as Papa.
Giorgio bolts his food. He has a telephone call to make to his girl Jean. Jean is not Italian. A catastrophe, Nina and Giacomo at first believe, but one that is slowly dying behind the girl's sweet sociability. Jean is a stenographer at the Big Quarry, a good two miles from the shed where Giorgio works, and this may be the only opportunity of speaking with her today. Papa eats slowly, determined to take the whole day in an easy glide, so that he will not be tired tonight for his friend Pietro's wake. He smacks his lips over the last sip of coffee-and- grappa , draws a