David Rossi was the pinnacle of what every Italian man wanted to be. He spoke Italian whenever he got the chance, made traditional pizza, drank wine that was imported from Italy and aged no less than 30 years. He was a man of great tastes.

But just as he was about to demonstrate how to stretch the dough, his eyes fell upon you, standing at the counter with a squirt bottle of—he could hardly believe it—ketchup. A deep frown creased his forehead, and a slow-burning incredulity rose from his stomach.

“What on earth are you doing?” he exclaimed, trying to mask his horror with a semblance of calm.