Prosciutto

Let me tell you about prosciutto, and you will know it the moment your hands touch it.

A whole leg of pork, salted and hung to dry for months, with nothing cooked, nothing heated. Trust your hands and your nose on this one. A good slice is soft, thin enough that light comes through it, and it drapes over your fingers instead of standing stiff. Touch the fat — it should feel smooth and yield softly under your finger. Smell it: a faint nutty, salty smell, never sour, never sharp like ammonia.

Some people say prosciutto is just raw ham, so you can treat it like any cold cut and pile it on thick. No! Cut it thick and you will feel it in your jaw — it turns tough, and you chew and chew instead of letting it melt. That is the mistake: thick slices fight you, thin ones surrender.

Lay it over warm bread, over melon, over nothing at all. Let each slice rest loose on the plate, in soft folds, and let it melt on your tongue almost before you start to chew.