Food has been popping up in literature ever since Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage - or porridge as I misheard it as a child. What better way to establish a social setting, conjure a lost world or reveal your characters' qualities than describing their conduct at table? Balzac's stories are full of oysters and veal, as was Balzac himself, and it was a platter of quail that first put a flutter in Emma Bovary's bustle. Not for nothing does A Christmas Carol end with the Cratchits 'steeped in sage and onions to the eyebrows!'
For me, the most mouth-watering meal in literature is the banquet in Giuseppe Tomasi de Lampedusa's The Leopard. Published in 1958, almost a century after the period it depicts, the novel evokes the declining world of the Sicilian aristocracy in sumptuous, almost carnal prose. Visconti captured it beautifully on film but viewers of the banquet scene could be forgiven for failing to notice the food, given the compelling distraction of Claudia Cardinale's décolletage. On the page, Lampedusa's words do more than paint a picture. They unleash the senses.
As the banquet begins, flunkeys in powder and knee-breeches enter, each bearing a towering pie.
The burnished gold of the crusts, the fragrance of sugar and cinnamon they exuded, were but preludes to the delights released from the interior when the knife broke the crust; first came a spice-laden haze, then chicken livers, hard-boiled eggs, sliced ham and truffles in masses of piping hot macaroni, to which the meat juice gave an exquisite hue of suede.
The moment I first read that passage, some twenty-five years ago, I vowed I would taste that macaroni pie or die trying. Finally, at this year's Melbourne Writers Festival, I got my chance. And the setting could not have been more perfect - the Mural Room at Guy Grossi's Florentino.
Guy is himself a member of Melbourne's culinary aristocracy. His father, Pietro, was recruited from Italy in the 1960s to work as a chef at Mario's in Exhibition Street, one of the cucina italiana's pioneering establishments, and Guy grew up with a burning ambition to one day own the landmark Florentino. He got his wish ten years ago, sank a fortune into restoring the place to its former grandeur and now presides over the finest dining room in town.
Earlier this year, I proposed to Guy the idea of replicating the Prince of Salina's feast. Not only did he know the novel, he'd been itching for an excuse to cook the pie, a timballo siciliano, ever since its starring appearance in Big Night, Stanley Tucci's 1996 arthouse comedy about a failing Italian restaurant run by two squabbling brothers. If I could supply the diners, Guy would produce the dinner.
Evidently, mine was not the only appetite to have been whetted by Guiseppi de Lampedusa's luscious prose. Within days of being advertised in the festival program, all eighty places were booked. To bolster the evening's literary credentials, I asked Dr Andrea Rizzi, senior lecturer in Italian Studies at Melbourne University, to speak about the book and give short readings between courses.
The Mural Room at Florentino is opulence itself, wood-panelled and double-damasked, its glassware and cutlery lit by rose-hued lamps and overseen by a small bronze statute of Dante on a ledge between the frescoes. When the waiters, dressed in long crisp white aprons rather than powder and knee-breeches, emerged from the kitchen with the domes of pastry, they were met with a tremour of collective anticipation.
We plunged in, all forks and elbows, savouring the moment. And while Guy's timballo did not quite achieve the Platonic ideal of Lampedusa's sumptuous confection - how could it? - it managed a very fair approximation, catching to perfection the sensuality of the novel. When a trolley appeared bearing the dolci, a castle made of cake and pear jelly, spontanous applause followed it around the room.
The Leopard wasn't the only book I'd chosen for gastronomic translation at the festival. Two nights later, it was Don Quixote. The setting was a long table upstairs at Bar Lourinha, a tiny tapas bar at the top end of Little Collins Street. The inspiration was provided by a scene in which the long-suffering Sancho Panza is taunted with a dish called olla podrida. This translates as 'rotten pot'. In fact it's a combination of chickpeas, chorizo, pork and anything readily to hand not 'contrary to the holy mother church, orthodoxy and good manners'. It came with plenty of good wine and two visiting authors from Barcelona and Portugal provided the lit-chat.
Robert Wilson, whose crime novels are set in Seville, told a story, possibly of the hairy-dog variety, about the invention of tapas. According to legend, the custom of serving a glass of wine capped with a tasty titbit had its origins when, during a royal progress, the king of Spain nipped into a low bodega for a quick sherry. The joint was thick with flies and, lest one take a nose-dive into the monarch's manzanilla, the inn-keeper draped a thin slice of jamon over the glass. El Rey ate the lid and tapas became a national fixture.
Before the olla podrida came ameijoas a Bulhao Pato, a dish of clams. Apparently Bulhao Pato was a porty poet of the 1890s. His stanzas may not have survived the test of time but garlicky clams have made his name immortal in Portugal.
The last of the festival's literary feasts drew its inspiration from The 1001 Nights. In one of Scheherazade's interminable tales, a starving beggar is served a meal of invisible food. After pretending to down too many imaginary goblets of alcohol, he pretends to turn nasty and gives his host a very real smack in the chops. It all ends amiably, of course. The pretence is dropped, the real grub served and they all eat happily ever after.
Our chef on this occasion was Joseph Abboud whose restaurant, Rumi, seemed the natural venue for just such a gastronomic excursion. Rumi was a Persian poet whose verses are cut in the fretwork screens at the restaurant entrance. The son of Lebanese immigrants, Joseph draws his menu from a collection of medieval Arabic recipes he keeps under a bench in his kitchen. As we tucked into our braised duck with dried figs, honey and raisins, exactly as described in Sir Richard Burton's translation of the Arabian Nights, an oud was strummed and poems recited in classical Arabic. In a variation on the original, the wine was real but no punches were thrown. To put a spin in the tail, we finished with Persian fairy floss.
I've been scouring my bookcase for gustatory potential ever since. There's a turbot in Anna Karenina I rather fancy and it would be interesting to see what a sushi master could do with Moby Dick.