My grandfather served in World War 2. He liberated Italy, and when he wasn’t screwing whores and stealing priceless art works, he was chowing down on the best food he could get his hands on.
He brought back crates and crates of paintings and sculptures, only to lose them all when the Army followed up on the Vatican’s complaints about looting.
He kept one treasure, though: a recipe book, collecting up amazing dishes that kept his restaurant busy every night.
One night, a burglar shot him.
The book stopped the bullet.
Don’t ever say Italian food is bad for you.