Fascist Brothers in Armed Orgy
I passed by the Buffet da Pepi the night before as I was on a fascist watch along the grand piazzas of modern Trieste. What a pocket of freaks I thought as I stared at tall Italians who only 75 years before were average-sized Austrians.
I don’t get this fucking place and at the same time what an amazing setting as the city bleeds upwards from the sea and two great lighthouses call to weary sailors to stop. I think that is where the buffet came from; sailors with big appetites and sickness of sea foods. These were men of work, not thinkers, not ponderers of the human condition but hungry motherfuckers and pigs were cheap and plentiful.
The next day I went straight to BdP around Noon (way too early to eat in Southern Italy) and the head server said to me in Italian. Did you pass by here last night looking in the window? Yes, I said. I see you, I look (he said in English). This ought to be interesting I thought as my cohorts and I were crammed into a space only large enough for 3 small people and we were 4.
Snout to tail or some such nonsense that the foodie likes to hail as another triumph is what the buffet in Trieste is all about, at least the pig parts and not the foodies. The locals rock in the door, hand over some euro change, and then get a small and dense little roll filled with all kinds of porky goodness. I wanted every little sandwich, all the little thimbles of wine, and to be able to rap the local funky dialect.
However, I was here for a day so it had to be the platter. Yes, a platter of pork from the hoofs to the hot dog, this was what it was about. The Italian call sauerkraut, Krauti. Now that is what I will always call it and also what I will call the locals of Trieste.
The platter arrived and it was stocked. I forgot to ask for the fucking horseradish they shave over the meat until I saw some Krauti being served the spicy root and and I looked down and the platter was near empty save for a few pork knuckles and unwieldy cubes of fat. Shame for the radish but the mustard was intense, the krauti creamy and better than any I had eaten before, the beer cold, and the service as fast as any in Italy. These seafarers knew how to rock land food better than most landlocked lords of libation. This was a German grandma’s pork with an Italian flair and eastern European melancholy. It was lively, but there was a grim specter of flux over the room.
Hungry Revelers at The Buffet da Pepi
The potato salad was weak, the prosciutto di San Daniele exceptional. Both were extraneous and not part of the altar of savory and warm comforting sprawl on the table.
I crossed the canal, if you can call it that and made my way to the bridge to meet James Joyce. I stood next to him and thought my own mind almost as incomprehensible as his books. I knew that better men than me sat with James here and spoke Italian and I wondered if Joyce spoke it with a bit of brogue. I thought of Hemingway’s description of Joyce and his family dining in Paris and only speaking in Italian, and now I consider the fantastic Irish couple I met in Sicily. What is it with Ireland and Italy? Why do I continue to believe they are both part of where I am going and have been?
The “Big” Canal
I was flying away from Trieste that day and hated myself for it. Not because I needed more pork but because I was flying in general and that turns my stomach. Now, in Trieste, is good Peter B and he is running down his linguistic dreams amidst Fascist revolutionaries stirring the depths of their own stupidity but what can you expect when men are isolated by the sea, the mountains, and have plenty of pork?
Fascism should be much uglier and in the south of Italy it is. Here in the north it simply offers grand views and bad sculpture. Tourists seem old here and the people seem very young in the night and very sad in the day. It was grey and it should have been.
I really thought there could be a fight or two but that was reserved for a late night in Rome and somehow the wines of the Collio only a few kilometers from us seemed so Italian. While Trieste served wonderful coffee, and copious grappa it was far from the Italy I knew and I am sure Joyce was there with me. I always feel myself to be a portrait of an artist as a not quite so young man, but an artist to be certain. The fact is, I think Joyce liked sailors and their pork.
James giving me a shoulder to lean on
About Michael Housewright
Interesting, broody… is this a bit of lucid love, hate and/ or indifference? I will say a captive, thought provoking post. I read it five times.
Maybe I need to read more Joyce.
Wendy,
This is the kind of thing that comes from a part of me that just speaks. I am sure it is broody, and how can I not be when in the presence of greatness (pork and Joyce) in the most artificial of beauty (fascist art)? You honor me by reading this through so many times
Yes… that’s a rarity in these times, trying to keep up. I hope it was understood that I liked it!
Michael – nice stream of consciousness
I adore Joyce and has a great professor that specialized in all things Joycean. My copy of Ulysses is well loved and well noted. You take me back my dear. Back to roaming the Aran Isles with Italians on my heels. “Ciao bella” still rings in my ears 15 years later and I’ve never set foot in Italy.
TWTG
The fact this reads as SOC is exactly the goal. This is what I try and accomplish so much is for carefully rehearsed material to come off as off the cuff. Joyce rings like such a mystery to me and I am much more a Hemingway guy, but the more I see what Joyce did the more I think he might very well have been on to something
Ya think? I know I’ll be culling through my bookcase tonight to touch Joyce and harken back to days of yore when I was a scholar. Shall I loan you my Ulysses with the Bloomberg?
if you can grasp Ulysses and you can remember what you grasped you are likely much more intelligent than I am and have likely used hallucinogenic drugs at some point in your life. I would be honored to read your copy with your notes
LOL – I’m just going to plead the 5th and agree that I’m more intelligent (kidding, I think you are brilliant. You know why? Because you turned your passion into your living, or you are on the way there.)
ha! I am turning my passion into my work which is often painful and always challenging. At the same time I would not change the path
You have no idea how long i have been staring at that header,if telepathy worked or i had some powers,you would have ended up with an empty header..its just too yumm..
Beautiful shots and as usual very engaging write up..
not a big fan of flying either,but i hate it cos i have a bad motion sickness thing going on..
That is a photo I did for my beloved Sushi Den here in Denver. Copper River Salmon Sashimi with Aspargus, Poached eggs, shiso pepper, and amazing Hollandaise sauce
I hope you don’t forget to stop by! The party will rage for the next few days!
Thought provoking post and fantastic photos as usual!
I will get there by 20:00. Been an insane day, but I don’t want to miss the party
‘The “Big” Canal’…what a magnificent shot!
thank you very much. this was a great subject
Agreed.You’re welcome!
Oh, my. Michael, you’ve transformed yourself. Italia-inspired, you have come home with a new voice. I like it. This is good.
This is the kind of thing I am moving towards as I gear up to go for something bound and plotted…changes on the way at TBA George and I am so happy you approve
I went to see the Dubliners on a first date in high school. Not a great date night movie, just in case you’re wondering. =)
I bet that was a shit date film! Ha..that makes me laugh
very much..I just was in that introspective place yesterday and thank you for your comments and your kind support