All salumerie are unctuous, and Sicilian salumerie, in the summer months, are especially unctuous. But Rosalba Quattrocchi’s salumeria beats them all. The fat is not due merely to the hams and cheeses, the mackerel fillets in oil and the wheels of Gruyère perched on little marble columns. The unctuousness of the Quattrocchi salumeria is a swish of status, an oozing exhibit of opulence. Jano Caporeale and Cosimo Cosentino enter the salumeria, looking around a little bit bewildered. The Quattrocchi establishment makes them slightly nervous, especially since Caporeale had once refused the advances of “Signorina” Quattrocchi, fatally forgetting that the “young” lady let them both buy on credit. “Shit,” Cosentino had confided to Caporeale, “I can’t bring myself to call her Signorina, have you looked at her?” “But you’ve been calling her Rosalba for years and you even use the tu.” “Exactly, that’s what I’m getting at, I’d prefer to address her as Lei.” “Well, look who’s here.
