The stairs outside my accountant’s place, in Sondrio, always smelled of ravioli, whatever the time of day.
Downstairs, on via Mazzini, there was a little shop with the workshop at the back: 50 square metres where they could do everything—one van and plenty of drive to get the job done.
It was 1998, and it was all about the Art of Pasta.
Pierpaolo, Cristian and then Marco threw themselves into this adventure without imagining how far it would take them. Whenever there were deliveries to make, even their dad, the legendary Daniele, would chip in in his spare time.
I still call them “the guys”. I’ve known them since then.