The boss of all bosses lived in a hole in the ground. I know. I met him. Forget the guys in the papers. Sure, they all live in holes in the ground - every time they catch a sociopathic drug dealer who happens to be Sicilian, the guy is usually in a bolthole with a TV and a fridge, like pre-death. But the boss lived there because he liked it. He was like a woodchuck. He looked up to everybody. But nobody was ever confused as to who was the boss.
On the way over, my driver asked me: Do you know why he’s the boss of all bosses? Because he has no enemies. Then he drives for a good ten minutes before he says: And none would deny it.
I’m on my way in for some caciocavallo, and not because I was looking for it. It came looking for me. I tasted it in Naples and put in an order. I thought that was the end of it when my guy there says that if I want the cheese, I have to go to Sicily to sign for it. Why ask questions? I love Sicily.
The boss had a cavern of cheese - huge balls, sagging by a thousand ropes, creaking in the dark. I don’t know what other people pay, but I paid next to nothing. On the other hand, I only wanted a few kilos, none stagionato. It was giving the money that was important, like an offering. But I do know that an aged cheese can run into serious money.
I mention it because the boss just died, and people are devastated. Seriously, the guy had no enemies. He was also 89, so it’s not like it came as a surprise. But now they have to find a new one, which for these people is like a Pope search, with a lot of voting followed by some smoke. One thing is for sure - he’ll be old. But they won’t be picking a German ex-Nazi who’s a stickler for the hocus-pocus. Unlike the Catholics, these guys have a memory for more than dogma. And they don’t go in for child molestation, demonic possession, or funny hats. They’re looking for a guy everybody loves, a guy who gives more than he gets, a guy who is wise in the way that only truly a satisfied person can be. Good fucking luck.
The thing is, the new boss won’t know he’s the boss until people start showing up to buy whatever it is he’s raising on some dog-patch farm in Sicily, and start to offer him money. So he’s got to be pretty good at making whatever it is he’s selling, which is invariably something to eat. Because people don’t want to pay money for something they can’t cherish, despite the advice they’re seeking or the justice they deserve. People want a good memory. I can still taste that caciocavallo.
