Just what is that fire-belching thing?

ONE of the favorite party dishes in ancient Rome was a chicken stuffed inside a duck, the duck inside a goose, a goose inside a pig and a pig inside a cow, all cooked together over an open fire.

It was, of course, not intended for casual dining but for one of those well-attended Bacchanalian orgies that emperors liked to throw on certain religious holidays, of which there were many, due to the multiplicity of gods.

If there were leftovers from the orgy, maybe a little of the chicken still stuffed in the cow, the Nubian slaves and retired gladiators could probably eat them the next day.

I was thinking about this the other evening at Joe’s Restaurant in Venice, dining alfresco in the kind of heavenly twilight accompanied by madrigals.

Do not let the name of the place fool you, since Joe’s could be a truck stop or a beer bar with pool tables.

This is a gourmet restaurant and the food is so good, the first teeny bite makes you want to throw baby kisses, like a restaurant critic in a state of gastronomic ecstasy.

What I ate is not important. What is important is that it wasn’t okra and tuna in cottage cheese, which was my dinner the night before. I am, you see, alone at home, left to my own devices to whip up something to ingest beside two olives in a vodka martini.

Cinelli had to rush out of town to visit an ailing daughter and had no time to prepare frozen things for me to eat. What she did was say, “Survive!” and hand me a cookbook for precocious children who had not yet learned to rebel.

It was called “Cool Kids Cook” by Donna Hay, with illustrations by Danielle Holden. It is a very pretty little book, but I am not prepared to survive on spaceman eggs and buried treasure muffins.

The only dish that I truly cook is a puttanesca sauce to mix with pasta, but I only know how to prepare it for 10 people at a time. My formula does not cover small numbers of guests. It is like the chicken inside a duck inside a goose, etc. You can’t take a gourmet recipe and cut it into tenths and expect it to work.

There are options available for those who should not wander into a kitchen under any circumstance. The freezer compartment at Vons is loaded with prepared meals, and the boulevards are lined with take-out restaurants and eateries intended for those born without taste buds. You won’t find me in any of them.

As I pondered my circumstance, I had a vague memory of my wife saying anyone could cook a roast. So I bought a roast and telephoned her for instructions.

“Just set the oven for 350 and stick it in for about an hour and a half,” she said.

“Stick it in, in what?”

“In a baking pan.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s square and dark. Up above the Hoosier.”

“The what?”

“The big antique dresser-like thing I keep dishes in.”

“I found a dark pan but it’s more rectangular.”

“Does the roast fit in it?”

“It seems to.”

“All right, put the roast in it, sprinkle it with garlic salt and stick it in the oven.”

“For how long?”

“I told you. About an hour and a half.”

“I don’t deal in ‘abouts.’ How long exactly?”

“One hour and 32 minutes and 18 seconds.”

“There are no seconds on the timer.”

“Then make it one hour and 33 minutes. Cut into it after exactly one hour to see how much pink there is in the middle. Use a knife. You know where the knives are? In that thing next to the sink with drawers?”

“How pink should it be?”

“As pink as a baby’s cheeks.”

“On a scale of one to 10, 10 being my eyes after a party, what would it be?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I just want to know how pink.”

“As pink as you like it.”

“Well, then, how pink do I like it?”

“Make it a five.”

“OK.”

“Or maybe a five-point-five.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. Happy cooking. You know where the oven is, right?”

Of course. It’s that pale yellow thing with burners next to the grill we never use.

I cooked the roast OK, and it was so good that next time I’m going to try the chicken inside the duck, et alia, et gastronomia.

Meanwhile, when Cinelli came home, we dined at Joe’s. It was a simple meal. They don’t do orgies.

The roast is languishing in the fridge -- the yellow thing that gets cold.

Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.