"In my line of work, I hear every profanity known to man in several languages." Ezio chuckled again, shifting himself to sit more firmly in the chair. He was content to sit, watch and listen until the chef reappeared bearing ... well, it smelled wonderful. "My dear sir, I am from what you call Florence in English. To not like anchovies is at least a venal sin." He eyed the plate, smiling. "They called this 'whore's pasta'. Is it still called that?" He didn't want to say he was from the fifteenth century, somehow. He hadn't any idea if the chef would think him mad, to begin with.