…never speak it perfectly, even if I lived in Italy for twenty years, because it wasn’t in my blood. I considered not going to the sandwich shop anymore, my own private boycott. But that bread, soft as marshmallows. That grassy, glossy olive oil. The slices of turkey and ham cooked in the little shop, their roasting aroma drifting like music into the street. And the relaxed, expert movements of the proprietor as he layered and spread and sliced and poured. I couldn’t stay away.