His dishes seemed to be always the same, and as soon as he had finished the last mouthful, he rose and strode from the room.
Don is a common title of respect in Southern Italy; it dates of course from the time of Spanish rule.

At a favourable moment I ventured to inquire of the waiter who Don Ferdinando might be; the only answer, given with extreme discretion, was "A proprietor." If in easy circumstances, the Don must have been miserly, his diet was wretched beyond description.

And in the manner of his feeding he differed strangely from the ordinary Italian who frequents restaurants.
Wonderful to observe, the representative diner.

He always seems to know exactly what his appetite demands; he addresses the waiter in a preliminary discourse, sketching out his meal, and then proceeds to fill in the minutiae.

If he orders a common dish, he describes with exquisite detail how it is to be prepared; in demanding something out of the way he glows with culinary enthusiasm.