Puglia, Valle d’Itria. You eat this salume and Puglia seeps into your bones: not the postcard sun, but the one that scorches the dry stone walls, that makes the cicadas scream. The capocollo is a wave of aroma: Fragno wood, toasted and resinous, embers that transform without burning. An intense, rustic fragrance. We sliced it thin: a parchment of fat and muscle. On the palate, the smokiness wraps around you. The stracciatella is the white truce. The tarallo, the final crack.