Returning from a Florence glowing 40C from every stone, I carried a cake from Robiglio wrapped in waxed paper and tied with golden ribbons and bows (pan di spagna soaked in liqueur, covered with freshly-made pasta di mandorle, decorated with mint and violet sugared flowers and leaves, as you ask).
"Today,' I announced, "There will be proper tea."
"Can't have that," replied Mr HG.
Me, snippy in the heat, "Why ever not, just for once?"
"As we all know: proper tea is theft."