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On Aug. 12, Grill 23 hosts an "Ode to Summer Tomatoes" dinner. The four-course menu is $65 and prominently features something called Mr. Angelini's Amazing Tomatoes. These are grown by local farmer Pio Angelini, and I don't know what makes them so amazing because I haven't tried them, but I would surely like to find out. I dearly love good tomatoes, and I honestly haven't had one this season that's knocked my socks off. Here's the menu, with wine pairings: Simply marinated tomatoes with African budding basil and Rawson Brook chevre croquette Tirecul la Graviere VdP du Perigord 2002 Tomato "clear" noodles around Laughing Bird shrimp Schweiger Chardonnay 2006 Slow-cooked tomatoes with a prime rib pinwheel steak and blue gnocchi (Why so blue, gnocchi? Cheer up -- it's tomato season!) La Spinetta Barbaresco 2002 Tomato sorbet and upside down cake Two Hands "Brilliant Disguise" Muscat 2006 Grill 23 & Bar, 161 Berkeley St., Boston. 617-542-2255. grill23.com. The dinner, and the idea of celebrating tomatoes, brings to mind Pablo Neruda's poem "Oda al Tomate," possibly the best poem about produce ever written. And because it's Friday, and Fridays are good days for this kind of thing (and also because this has been a very popular item on boston.com today), I'll post it here, as translated into English by Nathaniel Tarn and then in Spanish. Ode to the Tomato The street drowns in tomatoes: noon, summer, light breaks in two tomato halves, and the streets run with juice. In December the tomato cuts loose, invades kitchens, takes over lunches, settles at rest on sideboards, with the glasses, butter dishes, blue salt-cellars. It has its own radiance, a goodly majesty. Too bad we must assassinate: a knife plunges into its living pulp, red viscera, a fresh, deep, inexhaustible sun floods the salads of Chile, beds cheerfully with the blond onion, and to celebrate oil the filial essence of the olive tree lets itself fall over its gaping hemispheres, the pimento adds its fragrance, salt its magnetism -- we have the day's wedding: parsley flaunts its little flags, potatoes thump to a boil, the roasts beat down the door with their aromas: it's time! let's go! and upon the table, belted by summer, tomatoes, stars of the earth, stars multiplied and fertile show off their convolutions, canals and plenitudes and the abundance boneless, without husk, or scale or thorn, grant us the festival of ardent colour and all-embracing freshness.