A Nibble Here...

Dear Bruno,

It’s been a while - how are the kids? Still taking your meds? I’ve been busy writing my memoirs and otherwise rewiring my brain through a steady diet of Tibetan Buddhism and ‘round-the-clock self-flagellation. But let’s face it, I’m still pretty fucked in the head. You know I’ve always been quite the gourmand – food being atop my ‘guilty pleasures’ list (wasn’t it I who uttered the now - famous phrase during one of our early sex acts, “Can we make chicken parm when we’re done?”)

Of course, now that I’m living in Italy my appetites have become slightly more sophisticated (I being from the generation who lost its virginity to the amorous background music of Super Mario Bros), if only to include mortadella atop my list of aphrodisiacs. But I’ve even heard that back in New York, pig fat has become all the rage and meat-butchering sex parties are ultra-hip – what’s this world coming to?

So why am I writing to you about all this? Well, something interesting happened to me last Sunday at lunch, which reminded me of you:

A group of us was invited to lunch at an agriturismo in the country by a young Sicilian grad-student in our yoga class. It was one of those organic farms out near the seacoast where they still butcher their own meat (and don’t find it sexy), make their own ravioli, etc. This place was highly exciting because, as our native friend explained, they have also amassed an excellent collection of artisanal cheeses from all over Italy, with great regional wines to match.

You know I am not much of a drinker, but I drained everything that was put in front of me, becoming progressively more like a participant in a frenzied Bacchanalia with each heady glass. Given my love of cheese, I decided to forgo the usual pastas and meats, to concentrate on the various tastes, textures and terroirs of the formaggi del giorno. Our host, the archetypal Sicilian academic with a serious five-o’clock shadow and even more serious pale-gray eyes was gaily pleased with my decision and gave me a mini-lecture on the historical context of each cheese as it passed my lips.

Somehow, I became lost in all this, but can recall clearly the tangy softness of the taleggio, the grotty, crumbly fossa, the clarity and warmness of the cacciocavallo (made on premises, I was told), the out-of-this-world cocaine-like high of the tartuffata and finally being driven quite mad with passion for another Tuscan cheese whose name I missed but it came drizzled with the best acacia honey. You can imagine that with all the wine, I was being carried along into some other realm by the kaleidoscope of sensations and flavors that was passing before my lips.

Before long, the other companions had vanished from my consciousness, lost as they all were in their collective orgy of buccatini and maialino, and I found myself (perceptually) alone with our Sicilian host, locked into the surreal world of the ratty wine-stained table cloth, the old television in the corner blaring soccer, the ubiquitous black crucifixes on the wall, and the cheese. At some point, the bottom fell out and I realized I had left the world of reason that I’d tried so poignantly to arrange – it was the exact moment I laid eyes on the dreamy burrata Pugliese, wrapped as it was so primitive in its aesthetic-looking water reeds, its soft creaminess literally pouring out and surrounding me.

His eyes locked with mine and they seemed to contain infinite worlds – of madness, of mystery, and above all, of cheese. I understood that his lectures had been cleverly woven to seduce me; the man had read me like a book. There is nothing like a description of a piquant pecorino to get my juices flowing. There was no time for coffee and gorgonzola (pity that). With his heavy hand around my waist, we were away from the table, the room, the restaurant, like a fairy tale, and magically transported to a back room (which he seemed to locate almost telepathically) with a small divan, a hard floor, and some mouse-bitten ends of parmigiano in a corner.

There was no request that I would not have obliged that day with that swarthy, yoga-toned, cheese-loving stranger. But I have to tell you (and certainly you have already guessed this) that the sex was disappointingly boring, forced and showy – lacking any of that masterly smooth spontaneity that he had shown in front of the cheese.

Fortunately, there was one small consolation – the rotund padrona di casa waved me into her kitchen afterward and let me taste some of her fresh ricotta di pecora with a little cinnamon and sugar. It was comfort food, and in retrospect I am sure she was trying to comfort me.
Perhaps she knew all too well…

Bruno, I tell you all this because in all your poetic madness, you always knew what I suspected and have now confirmed: for sheer pleasure, nothing beats a good cheese. Creamy or sharp, not only does cheese provide rich and varied sensory stimulation, but that stimulation is reliable. Cheese takes its time with you – it doesn’t give out its flavor all at once or sadistically hold back – it’s a truly organic experience wrought by months of bacterial alchemy. It is not egotistical; it has no preconceived notion about the experience it provokes. It is just pure flavor – only the bite and softness it was born with. And these are enough.

All the inner depths of the universe explored by my bearded, far-away eyed Sicilian, and all the total beauty he has undoubtedly experienced, did not free him from the need to impose his damn macho, over-romanticized notions on my quivering, expectant body. He will never learn. But at least he gave me this day; allowed me to step outside my rigid world of made-to-order beauty and pre-fab pleasure – into the unexpected. I was, in short, engorged by cheese, in cheese and for cheese. And I only wish you had been there to laugh at me and marvel at the absurdity of our existence.