necessary to talk of the good old days when Bohemia was on Telegraph
Hill in San Francisco. Here they had their domicile, and here they
foregathered in the little restaurants, whose claims to merit lay
chiefly in the fact that they were rarely visited by other than the
Italians of the quarter and these Bohemians who lived there.

Here was the inspiration of many a good book and many a famous picture
whose inception came from thoughts that crystallized amid these
surroundings, and here many a needy Bohemian struggled through the lean
days with the help of these kind-hearted Latina. Here they, even as we,
were taught something of the art of cooking.

Of course, if one desire to learn various methods of preparing food, it
is necessary to keep both eyes open and to ask many questions, seeking
the information that sometimes comes from unlooked for sources. Even at
that it is not always a good idea to take everything for granted or to
accept every suggestion, for you may meet with the Italian vegetable
dealer who is so eager to please his customers that he pretends a
knowledge he does not possess. We discovered him one day when he had on
display a vegetable that was strange to us.

"How do you cook it?" was our question.

"Fry it."

Then his partner shouted his laughter and derision.

"Oh, he's one fine cook. All the time he say 'fry it.' One day a lady
she come into da store an' she see da big bucket of ripe olives. Da lady
she from the East and she never see olives like dat before. 'How you