“We should start with mozzarella. That’s what Naples is known for—pizza, too. We invented it. Whatever they say in Brooklyn.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“An article I read. A restaurant in Brooklyn in New York claimed to have created pizza.”

“Where I live.”

“No!” He was delighted to learn this. “Well, I bring no offense.”

“None taken.”

He ordered for them. Yes, fresh mozzarella to start and then pasta with ragù. He had a glass of red wine and she got an Americano coffee, which the waitress thought curious—apparently it was a beverage intended for after the meal.

Before the cheese, though, an antipasto plate, which they hadn’t ordered, appeared, meats sliced microscopically thin and sausages. Bread too. And the drinks.

She ate a bite of the meat, then more. Salty and explosive with flavor. A moment later the mozzarella cheese came—not slices but a ball the size of a navel orange. One for each of them. She stared. “You eat it all?”

Ercole, already halfway through his, laughed at the nonsensical question. She ate some—it was the best she’d ever had, and she said so—and then pushed the plate away.

“You don’t care for it, after all?”

“Ercole, it’s too much. I usually have coffee and a half bagel for lunch.”

“To go.” He shook his head, winking. “That is unhealthy for you.” His eyes glowed. “Ah, here, the pasta.” Two plates arrived. “This is ziti, which we’re famous for in Campania. It is made from our hard flour, but the very finely milled variety, semolina rimacinata. Topped with local ragù. The pasta is broken by hand before cooking. The gnocchi here would be good too—it’s how we get around our Campanian disdain for potatoes—but that’s a heavy dish for lunch.”

“You must cook,” Sachs said.

“Me?” He seemed amused. “No, no, no. But everyone in Campania knows food. You just…you just do.”

The sauce was rich and dense and dressed with just a bit of meat cooked down to tenderness. And there wasn’t too much; it didn’t overwhelm the pasta, which had a richness and flavor of its own.

They ate in silence for a few moments.

Sachs asked, “What else do you do in…what’s your organization called?”

“In English you would say Corps of Forestry of the State. CFS. We do many things. There are thousands of us officers. Fight forest fires—though I myself do not do that. We have a large fleet of aircraft. Helicopters, too, for rescues of climbers and skiers. Agricultural product regulation. Italy takes its food and wine very seriously. You know truffles?”

“The chocolates, sure.”

A pause, as he processed her response. “Ah, no, no, no. Truffles, fungi. Mushrooms.”

“Oh, right, the ones pigs hunt for.”

“Dogs are better. There’s a special breed that’s used. They are very expensive and prized for their fine noses. I’ve run several cases of Lagotti Romagnolo kidnappings by truffle hunters.”

“Must be tough. I mean, without a paw print database.”

He laughed. “They say humor does not cross borders but that is quite funny. And, as a serious matter, it’s a shame there is no such thing. Some owners put chips in their dogs, microchips, though I’ve heard that’s not always safe.”