The Food of Love by Anthony Capella

that?
    ‘Dinner,’ he said simply.
    ‘It smells -‘ she inhaled deeply ‘- fantastic.”
    ‘It’s pretty good,’ he said modestly. ‘Needs another twenty
    minutes.’
    ‘Twenty minutes!’ She wasn’t sure she could wait that long.
    She wanted to taste it now, right now.
    ‘Sure. Don’t worry. It will be even better if we have to wait a
    little. The anticipation will be part of the pleasure.’ He ran one hand down her back as he kissed her cheek in greeting.
    Laura gave a tiny, secret shiver. Carlotta had been right.
     
    After a glass of prosecco, Laura was completely relaxed. Tommaso was an excellent host, attentive and interested - at least he was once she had persuaded him to turn off the atrocious music he
    had playing in the background.
    ‘You don’t like the Ramones?’ he said, surprised. ‘But they’re
    American.’
    ‘So’s Mariah Carey,’ she pointed out. It seemed strange that
    someone whose taste in food was so highly developed could be
    completely deficient in any musical taste whatsoever.
    With the Ramones ushered politely out of the apartment, the}7 chatted happily as Tommaso sliced tiny spring vegetables for pinzimonio, a dip of olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. The kitchen was
    full of professional-looking chef’s equipment and some of the
    most ferocious knives Laura had ever seen.
    ‘When did you learn to do that?’ she asked, watching
    Tommaso’s knife dance over the chopping board.
    ‘Oh, it’s easy. And,’ he added, more truthfully, I had a very
    good teacher.’
    The wonderful smells from the oven were making Laura’s
    mouth water. ‘So what are we eating tonight?’
    ‘Here.’ He handed her a menu with a flourish and a bow, like
    a waiter.
    She looked at the card and read: Antipasto: verdure in pinzimonio.
    Primo: spaghetti aWamatriciana. Secondo: abbacchio alia
    cacciatora. Contorni: carciofi alia romana, asparagi con zabaione.
    Dolci: ricotta dolce; vin santo, biscotti. ‘My God. We’ll never eat all that.’
    iQuanto basta. Just enough. They are very small amounts, just
    enough to waken the palate. Not like American steaks, which sit
    on the stomach and make you—’ He mimed exhaustion.
    There was the sound of a door closing. ‘Who’s that?’ Laura
    asked.
    ‘Just my roommate. Don’t worry, he’s going out.’
    ‘Is he a chef as well?’
    ‘Bruno? Not exactly. That is, he’s a trainee. Just a bottle
    washer, really. Now, shall we eat?’
     
    Laura had never eaten food like this before. No: she had never
    eaten before. It was as if these flavours had always existed, had always been there in her imagination, but now she was tasting
    them properly for the very first time. Each course was more
    intense than the last. The spaghetti was coated in a thick sauce of meat and wine; rich, pungent and sticky. The lamb, by contrast, was pink and sweet, so tender it seemed to dissolve in her
    mouth. It was served without vegetables, but afterwards
    Tommaso brought the first of the contorni to the table: a whole rtichoke, slathered in warm olive oil and lemon juice and sprinkled with chopped mint. Laura licked every drop of oil off
    her fingers, amazed by the intensity of the flavour. Her stomach kept telling her that it was full, stretched to bursting point, but her appetite kept telling her she could take a little more, just another mouthful, until she felt quite dizzy with the excessive ness of it all.
    Tommaso left her while he went to finish the asparagus. After
    a few minutes, missing his company, Laura decided she’d go and
    help. She piled up the dirty plates and carried them towards the kitchen. ‘Tommaso? I’ll wash these while you’re doing that.’
    She pushed the door, which didn’t open. ‘Sorry,’ Tommaso
    called from within. ‘It’s, uh, stuck. It does that sometimes.’
    She rattled the door handle. ‘Want me to push it from this
    side?’
    ‘No, I’ll sort it in a minute.’
    For a confused moment Laura thought she heard voices