by Cecilia Resio

The Turkish restaurant’s name was Cappadoce and at twelve and a half
I shook hands with a waiter with bushy and black eyebrows like those of Mangiafuoco.
I would like to speak Italian, when the wind blows French words scatter all inside my head.
The mixed grill is not bad, says Juliette. I trust Juliette and I trust the mixed grill.
The waiter brings us an oval dish with several pieces of meat, surrounded by tired salad leaves and a very yellow spicy risotto.
I pierce, I push aside, I listen, I chew.
I smile.
As I translate simultaneously, I try to understand with my tongue what is under my molar teeth.
It is not lamb, it is not even ram, let alone beef, it doesn’t look like chicken.
Liver of something.
It has a mysterious consistency: neither soft nor tough, neither cooked nor raw.
Neither salty nor sweet.
I put on the bold and terrified expression of those who are possessed by a hostile mouthful.
It is the food that is chewing me, not vice versa.
I do not translate any more, I close the door to understanding.
I drink water, I drink. I swallow.
I look at my dish: next to a deceased onion, the brother of the dead mouthful
buried in my belly is staring at me, forever dumb.
It is similar, very similar to its dead relative.
Very round, a sort of little slimy potato the colour of blood.
A ball, not a perfect sphere. There were two of them before.
I realize that I have just eaten a nut.
Never mind, better to eat nuts than to live with them.