The Food of Love by Anthony Capella

down,’ she said decisively.
    ‘I’m going to swim. Want to come?’
    ‘Why not?’ As they plunged together into the creamy white
    spume, he called, ‘Now surf!’
    ‘But the boards are back at the van.’
    ‘Who needs a board?’ He waited for a wave, then threw himself
    into it, letting it carry him towards the beach.
    The first half-dozen waves they tried took them head over heels
    and they went under, spluttering. But it was exhilarating, and as soon as they found their feet they waded out again for more.
     
    At last, just when Laura couldn’t bear for Tommaso to delay any
    longer, he slipped his tongue into her, spreading her like a cicala, sucking the sweet flesh into his mouth. ‘Oh, Tommaso,’ she whispered, ‘that’s fantastic’ He swivelled round, working his tongue
    deeper, and she felt the first small ripples of gathering pleasure. It’s like lying on a surfboard, she thought dreamily; waiting for the right wave to come along and lift you up. She breathed more deeply, willing it to happen.
     
    Eventually they all piled into the van for the long drive back.
    Unfortunately Tommaso’s driving, while perfectly adapted to
    weaving a scooter in and out of endless Roman traffic, was hardly conducive to sleep. It was all right for the girls in the back: they couldn’t see the other road users, though some of their insults and the blare of their horns must surely have permeated even the
    deepest dream. Bruno stared out at the darkness. In his imagination he was cooking meals for Laura, presenting her with dish after
    dish, simply for the pleasure of watching her eat.
    He longed to educate her palate. She had so enjoyed the unfamiliar tastes of the seafood that he began to dream of all the other
    things he might introduce her to. No one knew better than he
    that to enjoy a new flavour was to be changed by it for ever. But what should he cook her?
    As a particularly exuberant piece of road-skating threw them all from side to side, Laura stirred. Bruno couldn’t help himself. He turned round to look at her. She lay curled up against her roommate on the back seat, the two of them wrapped in Bruno’s
    sleeping bag. His heart lurched as erratically as the van itself had just done.
    For you, he thought, I would cook such a wedding cake …
    He shook his head to clear the thought away. She was
    Tommaso’s girl, not his. What was he thinking?
    Bruno suddenly realised that Judith’s eyes were open. She was
    watching him even as he watched Laura. He quickly looked away,
    wondering if it was now obvious that it was her friend he’d been talking about, and if so, whether she’d say anything.
     
    At last they were back in Rome, making their way through
    Testaccio, the old meat-selling district. Many of the warehouses here had been turned into clubs and bars: this was the one part of the city that never slept, and more than once they had to slow
    down as groups of people spilled across the street, moving from
    one club to another.
    ‘Look at that,’ Tommaso said as they passed a new bar. ‘We’ve
    got to try that place.’
    Bruno grunted. Even quite recently, this area had been full of
    slaughterhouses and butchers. Now the meat men were being
    forced out.
    As far as he was concerned it was Testaccio, not the Via del
    Corso or the Piazza del Campidoglio, that was the real heart of
    Rome. For centuries animals had been brought here to be
    butchered, with the good cuts going to the noblemen in their
    palazzos and the cardinals in the Vatican. The ordinary people had had to make do with what little was left - the so-called quinto
    quarto, the ‘fifth quarter’ of the animal: the organs, head, feet and tail. Little osterie had sprung up which specialised in cooking these rejects, and such was the culinary inventiveness of the Romans that soon even cardinals and noblemen were clamouring for dishes
    like coda alia vaccinara, oxtail braised in tomato sauce, or caratella d’abbacchio - a newborn lamb’s heart,