Not Easy to Find

A friend was describing a meal at one of our favourite restaurants, Da Fiore, in Venice. In particular, he was waxing lyrical about scampi nostrani arrotolati e rosolati nel lardo di cinta senese. ‘Three fat langoustines, as big as my thumb’ (he gestured at this point to the plump fullness of his fleshiest digit) ‘wrapped in the sweetest lardo’ (a finger is wound around the aforesaid thumb at this juncture) ‘and then flashed over the plancha or under the grill or whatever you chef types do with it’ (finger now pointed squarely in my direction) ‘and you pop in the mouth and it just erupts with the juiciest, piggiest, most saline explosion of flavour.’