they can secure the delicacies imported by these foreign storekeepers to
supply the wants of their people.

But do not think you have exhausted the wonders of Little Italy when you
have left the stores, for there is still more to see. If you were ever
in Palermo and went into the little side streets, you saw the strings of
macaroni, spaghetti and other pastes drying in the sun while children
and dogs played through and around it, giving you such a distaste for it
that you have not eaten any Italian paste since.

But in San Francisco they do things differently. There are a number of
paste factories, all good and all clean. Take that of P. Fiorini, for
instance, at a point a short distance above Costa Brothers. You cannot
miss it for it has a picture of Fiorini himself as a sign, and on it he
tells you that if you eat his paste you will get to be as fat as he is.
Go inside and you will find that Fiorini can talk just enough English to
make himself understood, while his good wife, his sole assistant, can
neither speak nor understand any but her native Italian. But that does
not bother her in the least, for she can make signs, and you can
understand them even better than you understand the English of her
husband.

Here you will see the making of raviolis by the hundred at a time.
Tagliarini, tortilini, macaroni, spaghetti, capellini, percatelli,
tagliatelli, and all the seventy and two other varieties. The number of
kinds of paste is most astonishing, and one wonders why there are so
many kinds and what is done with them. Fiorini will tell you that each
kind has its distinctive use. Some are for soups, some for sauces, and
all for special edibility. There are hundreds of recipes for cooking the
various pastes and each one is said to be a little better than the