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full of offal.
    ‘Have you ever thought of getting married, Totò?’
    The cook was enveloped in a cloud of infernal smoke, with six pans on the cooker at once. Bordelli watched in amusement as the material was transformed. A chunk of butter, a bit of meat, and some other insignificant thing turned into a pleasure for the tongue and palate. Totò was a shrimp, but had the touch of a bullfighter. Any animal had to feel honoured to be mistreated by him. He could handle many pots at a time, and he bragged about it like a little boy. He kept the whole kitchen going all by himself.
    Finishing up his spaghetti alla carbonara , Bordelli thought with pleasure of the cigarette he would smoke once he’d finished his lunch. Totò emerged from his inferno and came up to him.
    ‘I’ll serve you in a second, Inspector. Wait till you taste the osso buco.’
    ‘I can’t wait.’
    ‘Did you like the pasta?’
    ‘Love at first sight.’
    ‘Don’t you think there was a little too much pancetta? Sometimes even I get it wrong.’
    ‘Cut the false modesty, Totò, you’re not convincing anyone.’
    ‘Nobody’s perfect, Inspector,’ the cook said, grinning like a braggart, before returning to the hob to see to the customers’ orders. Bordelli refilled his glass.
    ‘Totò, did you hear my question earlier?’ he asked.
    ‘What question, Inspector?’
    ‘Never mind,’ said Bordelli.
    The cook drew near with a frying pan in his hand.
    ‘You like it hot, right?’ he asked.
    ‘I can’t live without it.’
    ‘Then have a taste and see if you like this osso.’
    The meat was practically submerged in rather dense red sauce.
    ‘Your own invention?’
    ‘Almost … It’s sort of done in the Algerian style.’
    ‘You’re becoming as cosmopolitan as my friend Bottarini,’
    Bordelli said to provoke him. The previous year Botta had replaced Totò in that kitchen for a few days, keeping the restaurant going without much trouble, and when Totò had returned from his trip to the south he’d heard tell that his stand-in knew how to cook foreign stuff , not knowing that Botta had learned all those dishes by spending time in the prisons of half the countries in Europe and even a few in North Africa.
    ‘Give me a break with this Botta, Inspector! I’ve always known how to cook those dishes! It’s just that nobody ever asked to me to make them before,’ said Totò, lower lip jutting in disgust, waving his greasy hands in front of his face.
    ‘There’s certainly nothing wrong with learning new things, Totò,’ Bordelli persisted with feigned innocence. Totò shook his head dramatically and sighed.
    ‘Keep that wine close to you, Inspector, this stuff is pure fire,’ he said, then turned back towards the cooker with his arms dangling. Never tell a cook he could learn something from anyone, Bordelli thought, studying the osso buco. It looked magnificent but dangerous.
    Totò was endlessly filling dishes and bowls and passing them to the waiters through the semicircular hatch that gave on to the dining room. Bordelli put the first bite of meat in his mouth and felt his gums burst into flame. He took a long sip of wine.
    ‘Very good,’ he said with tears in his eyes.
    ‘I’m glad you like it,’ Totò said slyly.
    ‘What are you doing for Christmas, Totò? Going down to see your folks?’ the inspector asked, to change the subject. The cook paused for a moment, then approached, wiping his hands on his apron.
    ‘This year they’re coming up here. Cesare has decided to keep the restaurant open over the holidays. And what are you doing?’
    ‘I don’t know yet.’
    ‘Why don’t you come and spend Christmas with us, Inspector? There’s more than fifty of us, and we make enough noise to wake the dead. And you really ought to see some of my lovely cousins …’ he said suggestively, drawing the shape of a woman’s curves in the air with his hands.
    ‘Thanks, Totò, I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Bordelli, cautiously continuing