#156
Ciao, caro.
A greeting I’ve become accustomed to.
We’re down the street at the gastronomia. The classic one with old guys behind the counter slicing and cutting and wrapping and chatting. I walked past it a million times until one day, I saw a police officer coming out with a panino and getting into his cruiser and I suddenly paid attention.
It’s the kind of place where they see the dog and before I can order, they give him a slice of prosciutto or roast beef or cheese - whatever is at hand. It’s busy. There are dry-aged steaks, rotisserie chickens, prosciutto from across the country. There is cheese from the mountains, from inland, from goats and sheep and cows. In the corner, olives in shades that would make a painter envious. A wall of wine. Serviceable bottles, chosen because everyone will like them, not for any other precious reason. If you’re short on rice or pasta, they can help you out. If you want to know how to cook something, they have an idea in mind. If you don’t know what you want, they will tell you what’s good (all of it, but today, the mortadella con pistachio). My usual is some ricotta di pecora and some prosciutto, lately the Tuscan one, but often the San Daniele. It has a little more salt than the others. They get it all ready, give you a slip to take to the woman who sits indifferently in a booth by the door where you pay. They throw in some bread for free and yell ciao caro as I leave, buonagiornata.