“When I was growing up,” Cesare said, “everything was outside. We have a pig. The day after Christmas, we kill the pig, and we eat it all. From the pig we get sausage, prosciutto, feet, head — it feeds you for a year. I make everything most simple possible. This is poor person’s food.”
“In Tuscany, we only eat pasta on Sundays,” Julian said.
“No!” Cesare said. “He speaks like this because he’s an aristocrat.” They banter like frat boys.
I was driving through your campus the other night on the way to the all-you-can-eat pasta special at Listrani’s. That’s one hell of an intersection you’ve got there at Nebraska and New Mexico. Traffic lights, sidewalks, good-looking people. If you make it down to MacArthur Boulevard, I recommend the fettuccine alfredo.
The AJC disappointed me this morning, as usual. (Is this feature good or bad? You don’t learn that the girl has been shot dead until about the 70th paragraph. The writer is definitely working at subverting pyramid style, but does it work in this case? I personally didn’t like it.)
But page B7 was redeemed by an advertisement from Georgia Natural Gas. “Don’t believe a hot bath can relax you?” the ad asked. “Look at what it does to spaghetti.”