Each fucking dish you’ll purchase in America, if it’s French, Thai, top-flight, it’s all made by diligent-as-hell illegals. Mexicans. You’ve got a Colombian, maybe a Dominican. That’s it. But people don’t want you to talk like this. They like you to choke up while you tell them about childhood frolics with the Italian grandma who rolled out tortellini dough. So, that’s what I am, I’m Italian American. If anyone asks, I piss Sicilian sunlight.
