MORTADELLA: Sal, look at me, I’m busting out of
the cellophane. I’m fat and ugly. I hate myself.
SALICCIA: I know Mort. We don’t know why you
have to be such a hog. We’re still aging here but
you don’t help, blocking our view for one; and two,
our having to look at those disgusting flecks of
lardo isn’t easy on the eyes, you know. To tell the
truth Mort, I get you confused with head cheese
sometimes, not so much the breadth or width of
you but . . . you know what I mean. Does that
OLIVA: Trying to stay in my own brine here but
what does Mortadella even mean? Dead of her?
The mother killed him, cut him up and stuffed him
into sausage casing? Slice, anyone? No thanks!
PECORINO: Our smelly cheese wedges over here
aren’t much to look at either: one is paler and
runnier than the next. What do you say Focaccia,
oil-prince of breads?
FOCACCIA: Grazie, Pec. Pile in my friends, I’m