It was after a day of either moving into our apartment or touring around, I can't remember which, but in any case we were a sweaty, irritable mess, and that includes the baby. My husband decided to take me out to dinner notwithstanding this, at a place he had heard was good in a one-horse town: eight houses, a church, and this restaurant.
To our surprise, the place was professional in the extreme. Gloved waiters. Gloved busboys. Silver crumb-removers. Polite disregard for my t-shirt. "May I remove your dish, madame" (except in Italian). The works. And the chef was outstanding.
At the end of the night, my husband ordered an amaro (if I say "digestive," I'm not sure I am making myself any more understandable - at any rate, an after-dinner drink). The busboy brought us one they made themselves - liquorice-based, in an unlabelled black bottle encased in a block of ice. Impressed with the flavour, my husband initiated the following dialogue:
Husband: "Who makes the amari?"
Busboy: "We do."
H: "Ok, but who does it, actually?"
B: "Not I, certainly."
H: "Ok...so not you, but then who? The chef?"
Here there was a brief pause. Then the busboy pointed a gloved hand at the ceiling, implying an apartment directly above, and said: