I recently travelled to Italy, and the first pleasure of every meal there was reading the menu. Phrases like “risotto al nero di seppia, burrata e ricci di mare”— risotto with cuttlefish ink, burrata, and sea urchins—and “paccheri pestati cunzati con gamberi, pistacchi e bisque”—paccheri pasta with crushed seasonings and with shrimp, pistachio, and bisque—felt like a rich prelude to the food itself. On a rooftop patio in Florence, I was handed both the regular menu and a supplementary sheet of paper. I happened to be there during white truffle season, and the sheet of paper listed all of the dishes they made with the delicacy. I sat there, literally under the Tuscan sun, feeling like a character in a book—one that was very unlike my everyday self.
One of the chief pleasures I get from reading is in poring over the descriptions of food. Give me a banquet scene or a dinner party where the wine pairs perfectly with both the entrée and whatever dramatic revelation is about to come, and I am rapt. Battle scenes bore me, but reading a character’s grocery list enchants me. Maybe that’s why I love restaurant menus so much—a well-written one can feel like a piece of literature in and of itself.
