It’s impossible to say what Rossini would have made of Glyndebourne’s production of Il turco in Italia, but you can bet on one thing – he’d have brought the mother of all picnics. His love of food and drink was heroic; it’s believed that more recipes have been named after Rossini than any other musician. He didn’t mess about, either, berating his Paris grocer when a promised consignment of Neapolitan macaroni turned out to be an inferior Genoese product. ‘If he knows as much about music as he does about pasta, he must be a great composer,’ commented the oblivious shopkeeper.

Well, that’s the story, anyway (I thought the source was Stendhal but it turns out to be Ben Trovato). Regardless, he’d have been well placed to pronounce upon Act Two of Mariame Clément’s staging, which is located beneath salamis, hams and strings of sausages in a Neapolitan delicatessen. They don’t stay there for long. They’re swung as lassos, strummed like guitars, and sliced – then slowly, lasciviously ingested – by the Turk Selim (Peter Kalman) as he fuels himself for another attempt on the virtue of the proprietress Fiorilla (Elena Villalon). Funny, sexy, lip-smacking farce, in other words, and the Glyndebourne crowd – never backwards after 90 minutes glugging the Krug – was very........

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