a rhapsody in four courses

Rome, some time after 1930
 

 
I should have tales about the politics we speak,

recount how the Great Man sees Fascism’s 
future in the world but instead I recall how,

at first touch of silverware, the spatchcock melts 
from the bone!  How sublime the pasta – taglietelle

con sugo di porcini e crema. I have to taste that 
fabulous infusion again (merest touch of tarragon?)

Benito is launched on a favourite theme – how hard 
the Germans are, their total lack of gaiety or humour,

essentially barbarians still.  Between mouthfuls 
I nod accord.  I hope he doesn’t think me rude

for interrupting, asking if the palazzo chef might
furnish me the recipe – I’m desperate

to add it to my files.  Then filleto, processionally 
from the kitchen.  Maitre d’ at the head, cloched

silver salver aloft, next junior waiters in train 
with vegetables (austerity be damned – six separate

covered platters!).  At the rear the largest silver gravy boat 
I’ve seen.  It’s performance, as only Italians can,

theatre for an audience of two – Il Duce and me.  
The beef in all its glory is revealed, monarch of the meal.

A flourish and neat bow by the Maitre d’.  He carves 
succulent slices for our plates.  The fineness of the meat

almost finishes me.  I could drown in the delicious 
delicacy of the jus – butter, wine, caramelised filleto

juice, with perhaps a hint of stock.  Semifreddo 
for dessert – creamy confection to roll around the tongue,

relish the welcome bite of raspberry.  To cut the cream.