Ernest was a short man, a little thinning on top, a little thick round the middle.
Once, he grew a moustache. You look like Super Mario, his brother had said. He gave the name to his restaurant.
Ernest picked his teeth thoughtfully as he eyed the carcass. Then, with studied ease, he pared flesh away from bone, dividing into fillets, ribs (thick and thin) setting aside the liver and the kidneys and the trimmings for grinding.
His brother's head appeared round the kitchen door.
"Eah, Ernest, guy out front says he's found hair in his meatball mostaccioli, wants to make a complaint."
"Send him back here."
Ernest made ready, moving the offcuts from the board. Feet and hands in the red bin for the dogs, head in the fridge for coppa di testa.
Worksurface prepared, Ernest stropped his cleaver, waiting.
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