At the entrance of the Calamannaro there is a wooden lectern with the menu resting on it. It is a classy menu, with flowing characters and the prices written by hand. Broad beans, cordula with peas, lamb kebabs. I can smell cooking. It irritates me, I still have the bitter taste of coffee in my mouth. A guy in a shirt and bowtie is setting the tables. He has a low hairline and the somatic features typical of the island. He barely looks up as he leans over a table. He has a scowling expression.
"Yes?"
"Could I talk to the owner?"
"He’s not here right now." "I can wait. If I don"t bother you, of course."
He leaves the tablecloth and disappears behind the counter. After a good half hour a guy arrives. He is a mountain of a man, with a pear-shaped head and seems out of breath. He hands
