It was one of those dark and woody places that are perfect on a cold night in the mountains. I had arrived that day to start a research project and was starving. The woman at the hotel where I was staying had recommended it. She was beautiful in the way that only Italian women can be, possessing a certain quality that although intangible is unmistakable when you see it; no, not when you see it, when you are embraced by it, by its radiant electricity that stops your heart once it ebbs over you and through you.

The owner seemed grumpy, grumpy and ruffled, having one of those faces that over time has become a series of folds rather than wrinkles, furrows that matched the waviness of his graying hair.