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('Any relation to the chocolate?' he'd asked when they were introduced), who until six months ago had worked in Bolzano.
    'That guy probably can't tell a chicken from a salmon!' he said to himself.
    But at that moment, borne ever so lightly on the evening breeze, an aroma reached his nostrils and opened them up; it was a scent of genuine, savoury cooking, of dishes cooked the way the Lord intended them to be. His misgivings dispelled, he opened the door and went inside. There were eight small tables in the room, one of which was taken by a middle-aged couple. He sat down at the first table he came upon.
    ‘I’m sorry, but that one's reserved,' said the waiter and owner, a bald, sixtyish man, tall and paunchy, with a handlebar moustache.
    Obediendy, the inspector stood back up. He was about to set his buttocks down at the next table when the man with the moustache spoke again. 'That one too.'
    Montalbano began to feel irritated. Was this guy messing him around or something? Was he trying to pick a fight?
    "They're all reserved. If you want, I can set a place for you here,' the waiter-owner said, seeing the troubled look in his customer's eyes.
    He was pointing to a tiny little sideboard covered with cutlery, glasses, and dishes, very near the kitchen door, through which wafted that aroma that sated you before you'd even begun eating.
    'That'd be great,' said the inspector.
    He found himself sitting as if in the corner at school, with the wall practically in his face. To view the room he would have had to sit sideways in the chair and twist his neck halfway around. But what the hell did he care about viewing the room?
    If you feel up to it, I’ ve got burning pirciati tonight,' said the man with the moustache.
    Montalbano was familiar with pirciati, a kind of pasta, but wondered what the ‘ burning' referred to. He didn't want to give the man the satisfaction of being asked how the pirciati were cooked, so he limited himself to a single question:
    ‘ What do you mean, "If I feel up to it"?'
     
    ‘ Exactly what I said; "If you feel up to it,"' was his reply.
    'Oh, I feel up to it, don t you worry about that’
    The man shrugged, disappeared into the kitchen, then returned a few minutes later and started eyeing the inspector. The other couple in the room called him over and asked for the bill. The man with the moustache brought it, and they paid and left without saying goodbye.
    Saying hello and goodbye must not be the rule around here , thought Montalbano, remembering that he himself, upon entering, did not say hello to anyone.
    The man with the moustache came out of the kitchen and assumed the exact same pose as before.
    It'll be ready in five minutes,' he said. 'Want me to turn on the television while you're waiting?'
    'No.'
    Finally, a woman's voice calle d out from the kitchen. 'Giugiu! '
    The pirciati arrived. They smelled like heaven on earth. The man with the moustache leaned against the doorjamb as though settling in to witness a performance.
    Montalbano decided to let the aroma penetrate all the way to the bottom of his lungs.
    As he was greedily inhaling, the man spoke.
    ‘ Want a bottle of wine within reach before you begin eating?'
    The inspector nodded yes; he didn't feel like talking.
    A one-litre jug of very dense red wine was set before him. Montalbano poured out a glass of it and put the first bite in his mouth. He choked, coughed, and tears came to his eyes. He had the unmistakable impression that his taste buds had caught fire. In a single draught he emptied the glass of wine, which didn't kid around as to its alcohol content.
    'Go at it nice and easy,' the waiter-owner said.
    'But what's in it}' asked Montalbano, still half choking.
    'Olive oil, half an onion, two cloves of garlic, two salted anchovies, a teaspoon of fine capers, black olives, tomatoes, basil, half a pimento, salt, Pecorino cheese, and black pepper,' the man ran down the list with a hint of sadism in his voice.
    ‘J esus ’ ' sa id