wine and water are brought
with less ceremony than before.
There are no fresh glasses
and the waiter does not pour
a specimen measure.
But the first courses
arrive soon after -
ravioli annointed with butter,
carpaccio with a chrism of oil -
and the condiments are distributed:
parmesan shaved
from a nubbly, fulvous block,
a sesquipedalian peppermill waved
by the nimble attendant of the kitchen hatch in final blessing.
He watches, and his companion
watches him watch,
the flexing of supple back
and sturdy haunches
as the waitress raises
and twists the head
of the wooden phallus,
scattering seed.
They scarcely need
the waiter's intoned
Buon appetito."
From the book-length poem, The Song of Lunch by Christopher Reid. This has been filmed, and I am gnashing my teeth in desire to see this.
If you've ever loved, have ever lost, or left, met again, shared lunch, or anything that sounds remotely similar, I suggest you read this pointed, funny, sad look at two lovers meeting again years after their relationship ended. Of course, it's hard not to read without imagining Alan Rickman and Emma Thompson in the roles, but that's no problem at all. And check out Emma Thompson - the woman gets more beautiful with every passing year.
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