“Do you like Ravioli? I like ravioli. Everyone likes ravioli. Don’t they? I think they do.”
James sat on a bench, pontificating about ravioli. The people passing eyed him, making sure he stayed where he was, but otherwise tried not to participate.
“Honestly, ravioli is brilliant, isn’t it? I mean, you have the pasta, that nice semolina dough, coating some delicious thing, whether its meat, spinach, mushroom, squash, you can put anything in ravioli, right? It’s the most democratic of the pastas.”
A politician passing at the time snorted, but did not stop.
“Really, it’s the most democratic of the foods. You can fill it with pepperoni, you can fill it with masaman, you can fill it with bhaji. Anything. And it’s still ravioli. And you know what else? Sauce. Sauce is good. Everyone loves sauce.”
A chef passing at the time nodded.
“My favourite thing about ravioli, though? It’s the word. It’s like combining ‘rave’ and ‘areola’ in your mouth. And what could be better than raves and areolas in your mouth? Nothing, right? Except maybe rave areolas with sauce. Now that’s the best.”
Parents passing by covered their children’s ears, though were, themselves, titillated. That evening saw a spike in ravioli sales, as well as a number of injuries involving dance music, heated sauce, and nipples. The next day, James returned to his bench to orate on the pleasures of manicotti.