I tell people: pick from the bottom. The best should always come at the end, unless it’s track and field, in which case, you better not eat here. You should run into center city and take your chances.
I know a guy in Austria, a regular Nazi. Don’t get me wrong; he’s the nicest guy in the world. But if you get around to the Holocaust, you get the idea that he doesn’t think it was such a big deal. A lot of people died, all over Europe. I pursued the subject and I found out that he thinks the Jews somehow brought it upon themselves. So I think the conversation might seriously go awry, and so does he, so we were somehow off the subject before it got too weird. But then I thought; should I kill this guy?
The thing is, there was some business at hand. He’s got the pancetta I want, and I seriously want to tell him to run it back up the pig’s ass. But he’s like schlag, and I never get the chance. So I only bought half the bacon I came for, but that was a mistake. You never tasted pancetta like this. I confess I went back for more.
The next time I went, it was like he had something to prove. Far up in the mountains we met, at his gasthaus, where I have to admit, it was beautiful. I know Switzerland, and in the high Alps where the Italians meet the Austrians, there’s a lot of eating to be done in valleys so beautiful they make you want to scale the peaks, where there are even more restaurants, which serve canederli from God, so you have to go.
I realize that this guy is convinced that because I’m Italian we have something in common besides our love of pork. Naturally, that would be Fascism. What he doesn’t know is that I’m from Sicily and we don’t like Fascists. We can barely tolerate Democracy. So again, I’m thinking I should kill him, but his wife is a doll, his kids are gorgeous, and to tell you the truth, the guy looks exactly like me - but with lederhosen.
I remembered a time when I went back to Marsico, which is just like Sicily, only worse. It’s way up in the mountains in the shinbone of Lucania, where my mother's father was born. I was the first person from here to set foot there for over 100 years. It was like I never left. After a day of seeing my face on people all over town, I stopped to see the house from which my grandfather ran away – on a very sweet patch down in the valley.
I crossed the road and went into a bar. I was relieved to get out of town. I said to the barman that I was from here, though I didn’t have to tell him. Just look at me. Where? he asked. I jerked my thumb across the road. Marsico, I said. That house, right there. That’s not here, he answered.
So I thought that maybe I should just fuck the Nazi’s wife, which wouldn’t have been any big deal. He definitely had a peephole. And the wife was something else. Very fuckable. But she looked exactly like my sister. And besides, I don’t do that kind of thing. I wanted to punish the guy, not reward him. Even though it wouldn’t have mattered if I got her pregnant. The little bastard would fit right in. Then I’d have a Nazi in my family, which is all I need.
