Chapter 22
Orvieto, Italy. Present day.
She couldn’t move. In retrospect, she considered, eyeing her empty plate, she probably had not needed to inhale the entire homemade bread basket on top of the black truffle pasta, followed discreetly by the tagliata, all dusted with cheese and prosciutto and sprinkled liberally with white wine. Then again, with Orvieto’s food and wine famous the world over, it would have been downright reprehensible not to savor every dish the wizened restaurant owner had scurried over to her, puttering with the honey he insisted she try with the cheese. When she had made a joke to him about Orvieto being the inspiration for the Slow Food movement, he had laughed, but only just. “This is how we have always eaten, signorina, with respect for that which nourishes us,
