Brioche with mortadella, pistachio cream and pistachio crumble

The first time I had real mortadella was at a tiny deli on Calle Ancha in Marbella, a Tuesday morning, no other customers in the shop. The owner, an Italian called Beppe who hadn't lost his Emilia accent in twenty years on the coast, sliced a piece paper-thin and pushed it across the counter without saying a word. The fat dissolved before I could chew it. The pistachio came later. Almost an afterthought from a friend who'd been to Bronte and wouldn't shut up about it.

Everything you've ever eaten called mortadella in a Dutch supermarket is plastic. Pink rubber with white squares pretending to be fat. The real thing, sliced thin enough that the light comes through, tastes like nothing and everything at once. Pork, salt, pistachio, time. The cream you make on top is just the pistachio finding the volume to match it.

I serve this as the first thing to land on the table when villa guests arrive and they haven't sat down yet. Two bites, no fork, just hands. By the time they figure out what they ate the bottle is open and the evening is already underway.