The pigeon on my dinner plate had obviously led an athletic life. Muscular and elastic of flesh, stuffed with herbs and minced meat, it reposed on a large piece of toast smeared with honey - an antique-style dish seeming straight out of Apicius. Also on the menu were deer, wild boar with polenta, and beef loin in pastry with truffle and mushroom sauce.
Elaine Feinstein and I had come to Perugia on a four-day break, she to celebrate finishing her latest book and I to gad about and undertake food research for you, my dear readers. No longer married to an artist, I could cease to be high-minded and never need holidays, and instead indulge myself.
Next morning, testing yet another version of freshly squeezed orange juice at yet another cafe table at the edge of the piazza, overlooking duomo, palace and fountain, all we had to do was decide where to eat lunch. We found the sweltering heat had robbed us of much desire for food. Mais l'appetit vient en mangeant, and soon we were polishing off prosciutto melone followed by large portions of insalata capricciosa. Capricious indeed: sliced strawberries and sprinkles of tinned sweetcorn detracted from the pleasure of munching heaped spinach, rocket and radicchio rosso dressed with green olive oil and lemon. These salads, ubiquitous throughout the city, are for the tourists. Us. They were not, we told each other sternly, authentic. Far better was the fresh pineapple that followed, its spiky stalk sticking up like the tail of a gorgeous yellow bird.
In the early evening, strolling down a hilly street, we were hailed by three chefs who had come out for a breather and a quick fag. Don't forget to wish on the stars, they said. What? They explained: tonight, it being the festa of San Lorenzo, there would be a live concert in the piazza. Then, once it was dark, we must look for the stars in the sky. As soon as they appeared, we must make a wish. We headed back to the duomo - dedicated, indeed, to San Lorenzo, the martyr who, roasted pigeon-like on a gridiron for refusing to renounce Christ, politely requested his torturers to turn him over so that he could be well grilled on both sides. Mass was just finishing, and women were queuing up to do reverence to his statue. Outside, workmen were testing the sound system. The concert did San Lorenzo proud: swimsuited lovelies kicking up their legs to Mozart and Vivaldi; projected images of stars and planets whirling on the facade of the duomo; coloured fountains rising and falling in sync.
The pastry shops, too, were honouring him, selling special cakes: plain golden wheels dusted with icing sugar; pastry snakes, coiled into discs, with raised cuts for scales and almonds for tongues; and pastry fish with silver eyes and almonds in their mouths. Later that night I saw the stars, and made my wish.
