The sun is beginning to dip towards the horizon on Yom Kippur Eve. As we finish our dinner at an outdoor cafe in Verona’s Piazza Erbe, a heavyset gentleman with thinning brown hair that curls just below his ears walks through the tables and approaches one of the waitstaff. “Maestro!”, exclaims the waiter with a flourish, bowing low before greeting him warmly and guiding him to...