Poppy Z. Brite is a writer with a large cult. What does she write? As far as I can make out, based on her Self Made Man, a collection of short stories, it's weak horror and mild fantasy and a lot of homosexual boinking, all described with a sparkling use of words. She has moved on - I hear - to gastronomic crime fiction, which I haven't read, but this collection of stories has at least one passage (in Mussolini and the Axeman's Jazz) describing food. See for yourselves:
Cagliostro stood behind his counter and waited on the last customer of the day, an old lady buying half a pound of salt cod. When she had gone, he locked the door and had his supper: a small loaf of bread, a thick wedge of provolone, a few olives chopped with garlic. He no longer ate the flesh of creatures, though he must sell it to maintain the appearance of a proper Italian grocery.
Above his head hung glossy loops of sausage and salami, rafters of wind-dried ham and pancetta, luminous globes of caciocavallo cheese. In the glass case were pots of creamy ricotta, stuffed artichokes, orbs of mozzarella in milk, bowls of shining olives and capers preserved in brine. On the neat wooden shelves were jars of candied fruit, almonds, pine nuts, aniseed, and a rainbow of assorted sweets. There were tall wheels of parmesan coated in funereal black wax, cruets of olive oil and vinegar, pickled cucumbers and mushrooms, flat tins containing anchovies, calamari, octopus. Enormous burlap sacks of red beans, fava beans, chickpeas, rice, couscous, and coffee threatened to spill their bounty onto the spotless tile floor. Pastas of every shape, size, and color were arranged in an elaborate display of bins facing the counter.
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