There is a very great difference between good and bad charcuterie, which is why I try to only buy the first kind. This difference persists in the quality of pleasure enjoyed between thick, clumsy slices and those that are fine and delicate, the latter of these two varieties being my ideal. Producing the fine and delicate slices that I so enjoy, and not having a slicing machine to call my own, entails a steady hand and a particularly sharp knife. Was it not for the lack of charcuterie in his musings, it appears to me that Omar Khayyam may well have come from Lyon. Aside from thou’s absence, Omar’s choice of bread and a jug of wine is very Lyonnais and very me: unless I’m using a very sharp knife. When cooking, I have found that a glass of wine often finds its way into my hand and, in consequence, I have equated size of glass with frequency of event, the point of that sharp knife finds its way as regularly into the flesh of my hands as it does into the seasoned, marbled beauty of the rosette saucisson whose flesh I am paring into translucent slivers. Slices of pinky and thumb might have added a frisson of daring to one of Mrs. Sweeney Todd’s canapés but I do not have her digital reserves in my freezer. Whilst recently looking through my very limited prop cupboard, I came across the ideal sized glass for use in these operations, which affords me the pleasure of good wine as I slice without the blood letting.