He eats lamb chops and drinks a melony tokai from Friuli — today he recalls that wine as if he were tasting it again, the tawny flash and oily sway of it in the glass, the sour-sweet tang of the fat late grape. He is grieving for his wife, recently dead. Grief is an enormous globe that has been thrust unceremoniously into his arms, he totters under the unmanageable greasy weight of it. Thus burdened he has fled to the sinking city where there is no one who knows him and he knows no one.
John Banville, The Sinking City (a novel in progress), in the excellent Manchester Review.
Cheers to Alexi for the recommendation.
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The Great American Cooking Project
