When I first saw Tiepolo’s The Banquet of Cleopatra in my late teens I took no interest in the value of Cleopatra’s ill-fated pearl, but instead wondered about what manner of banquet had Antony concocted to try to impress a queen and rival her wealth. Every time I watch The Godfather I am certain I can smell the aroma of a tomato sauce with pork sausages and meatballs when cooked by “Fat” Clemenza (which, incidentally, is a sauce very similar to those in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas and Italianamerican). On reading Remembrance of Things Past I had wanted to taste not so much the famous ‘petites madeleines’, than rather a roast duck over which is ‘spilled numerous libations of red wine’, or a dish suggested by the scent of ‘a great chestnut tree, of baskets of raspberries, and of a sprig of tarragon.’ When I enter an Irish-styled pub I sometimes wonder if I will hear ‘the light music of whiskey falling into glasses,’ as wrote Joyce in his short story “Grace” (included in the collection Dubliners). I nowadays cannot buy a slice of capocollo, wafer-thin, without the slight trepidation that I might be overcome by anxiety and blackout (as did Tony Soprano in an early episode of The Sopranos).
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