The Italian meal is more marathon than sprint. Actually, more accurately, the Italian meal is a languorous amble down a country road with ample comfort breaks and conversation. I fondly recall my first real Italian meal at a country inn somewhere on a hilltop in Val d’Orcia.  On break from my real job in Rome working as a contractor for the British Government, I was eager to burn through my generous per diem- the same per diem that my more prudent colleagues would use to pay off their student loans.