Giovanni. I killed him, and ate his liver. It was an accident, of course. Well, the killing was accidental; the eating was deliberate. I cooked Giovanni’s liver in the Tuscan way: I made a paté using a recipe calling for fegato di cinghiale, liver of wild boar, spread it on crostini, and relished it with a good Chianti and a kiss of irony. The paté was surprisingly tasty, sapid yet nuanced, though I did have to cheat and use a touch of chicken fat to make it creamy. But given Giovanni’s decades-long adherence to veganism and a lifestyle so ascetic it anesthetized his desires, what else could I
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