How Cortese Paid for Lunch
This happened about a hundred years ago, if not more.A noble cavalier was walking along the road from Polo to Popigliano. His name was Cortese. Why was he walking? Well, it was simple—he didn’t have a horse. On his head, the cavalier wore a hat with a feather, on his feet were buckled shoes, on his shoulders a velvet doublet, and in the pocket of that doublet—not a single coin. This often happens with noble gentlemen. However, it wasn’t just his pocket that was empty; his stomach was empty too. So empty that he could probably have eaten a baked stone.
No wonder he was delighted when he saw an inn by the roadside.
“Perbacco! It wouldn’t be bad to have a bite to eat here,” he said to himself and opened the door to the inn.
The innkeeper rushed to greet the noble guest, seated him in the best spot, and began serving one dish after another: spaghetti—long, thin noodles, pigeons in sauce, roasted piglet, a bottle of white wine, and a bottle of red wine.
After eating all of this, Cortese crossed his legs, opened his snuffbox, took a good pinch, and loudly called for the innkeeper.
“Tell me, my good man,” he began, “what are the customs in these parts? If one man gives another a good slap, what would the judge say about it?”
The innkeeper replied:
“A good slap costs one scudo in fines.”
“And how much does the meal I just ate cost?” Cortese continued to ask.
“One scudo, less two soldi,” the innkeeper answered, bowing, and held out his hand for payment.
“Well, what’s the hold-up, then!” exclaimed the noble cavalier. “Give me a slap right away, and keep the two soldi as a tip.”
The innkeeper turned crimson with anger.
“Enough joking, you beggar! Pay for the meal, or you’ll regret it!” And the innkeeper began rolling up the sleeves of his massive arms.
But Cortese wasn’t the least bit frightened.
“Take your anger to the cellar where you keep your sour wine,” he said calmly. “There, your rage will cool off. Otherwise, I’ll make you run.”
“What do you mean, run?!” the innkeeper puffed.
“Just like that. Like a hare. Or even faster.”
“Fifty thousand devils, I won’t run!” But Cortese stood his ground.
“I swear by the blood of the piglet I just ate, you’ll run.”
“And if I don’t?”
“And if you do?”
“What if I’ve never run in my life?”
“Well, then you’ll run for the first time.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You’ll want to soon enough.”
“I’ll bet the cost of your meal that I won’t budge an inch!” roared the exasperated innkeeper.
Then the noble cavalier Cortese raised his fists, jumped up, and dashed... out the open door.
“Stop him, stop him!” shouted the innkeeper and rushed after Cortese.
But the cavalier was counting the payment for the meal with his heels at such speed that the innkeeper remained far behind. When Cortese had counted out a whole scudo this way, he stopped, waiting for the innkeeper.
“Well, my friend,” said the cavalier, “it seems I’ve won the bet. You ran faster than a hare. So don’t be angry; take a pinch of my snuff instead.”
And he held the open snuffbox under the innkeeper’s nose. The innkeeper laughed. What else could he do?