The Washington times., 1932-12-05

Europe.
That may or may not be a
distinction. 1t all depends upon
how you look at it. In Italy,
however. the King thought so
much Of him that Alfredo was
given a knighthood because of
his noodles. At that, his maj
esty was probably very wise.
The way the political situation
. looked over here. the King may
some day slip Alfredo his entire
title in swap for a rich plate
OF the same noodles.
A Noodle Artist
Alfredo is an artist in his
particular line. He speaks no
English. And he doesn't have
to because his language is uni
versal. When a heaping plate
OF Alfredo'S noodles is set be-
fore you and the gentleman
fiddles around with them until
he thinks they are ready for
your taste, you need nothing
but a satisfied smile.
This mans restaurant is lit
tie more than a small shop. 1t
is by no means an expensive
Joint. The two-piece orchestra
"a violin and a mysterious sort
OF banjo-plays but two num-
bers through the night, Good
night, Sweetheart" and "Sing-
ing in the Rain" The atmos-
phere has little class and no
distinction. And yet. by golly,
you get to love the joint.
It's all because of Alfredo.
His cheeks are like two ruddy
apples. The ends of his gro
tesque muStache point toward
the skies like two perfectly
matched spears Of ancient
Rome.
He does, of course, exactly
nothing. Yet there is a def
mite art in doing nothing-but
doing it well. He rubs a large
spoon and a fork together. He
slaps a huge piece of butter
among the noodles, and does
nothing but mix the noodles
and the butter with many
varied and important gestures.
Yet Alfredo is famous not
alone in Europe, but in the
United States as we'll. The film
stars of Hollywood are his de-
voted friends. Mary Pickford
and Douglas Fairbanks pre-
sented him with a golden fork
and a golden spoon. His gal
lery of photographs is filled
with pictures Of stars and near
stars. And his autograph books
contain nothing but important
world names.
Leaving the restaurant last
night, I asked my Roman guest
If Alfredo dined exclusively on
his own noodles.
mo" replied my friend, "he
can't eat them at all. They're
too rich for him."
The driver of a small car
riage. Give him any name you
desire. didn't have the oppor-
tunity to learn it. I passed into
his life for some IS minutes
and then out of it probably for
ever. Yet he came through
with a remark that I consider
a classic.
Coach and Four
We hailed the carriage in
front of a restaurant in this
city. When I say we" I am
referring to three or four people
whom I met on the boat and
who were now spending a few
days in Rome. The meal had
been good; the wine had been
plentiful. And as the funny
old carriage rolled by, it seemed
the most natural thing in the
world to engage it.
The driver was an elderly
man with .walrus mustache.
He might have been anywhere
from so to 70 years of age, and
he talked to his horse with
a peculiar chuckle in his voice.
AS he drove along. he explained
things and sights he deemed of
interest.
When we reached the hotel,
the tariff even the horse cabs
have meters in Rome-came to
five lire, or about Is cents in
our money acted as col.
lector for the crowd, and I
gathered exactly % lire es a
tip for the driver. In other
words the man was getting
$1.lO in addition to his fare.
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