Recently, it has occurred to me that the way I look at food, or culture, or music, I sort of develop a vaguely Patrick Bateman-esque, clinical / cynical opinion of the whole affair. I wanted to sort of poke fun at that a bit and so today’s poem is called gourmet tasting menu for 2.
i feel a lot like a murderer
eating beef tartar and confit egg yolk
(which the menu stipulates is from
a hen: which of course is a huge
relief). it’s like some chewed up
flesh, it excites me like nothing else.
i don’t like any kind of porridge
so it being flavoured with shrimp is worse
but it’s one of those disgusting things
i’m going to have to pretend to like
in order to appear sophisticated
and i’ll stop calling them “prawns”
like everybody used to. it’s pretty
uncouth. it’s pretty fucking uncool.
iberico ham makes a predictable
appearance. it’s sort of everywhere
At the moment. i’m jotting down
“iberico is the new prosciutto” & laugh
smugly to myself because i saw it
on masterchef last week which means
iberico ham is over. soon it’ll go the
way of prosciutto, you’ll be buying it
the fourth course is as ironic
as a tasting menu can get. a fondue.
the playful DIY of it. i glance at you
from across the table, you who is
simultaneously flirting with the
sommelier, and harshly judging his
choices. “are you trying to fucking
poison me?” you ask him
and i revel in the warm, gooey, yellow,
delicious irony of it all
whereas the lonk of lamb
reasonably sustained, and slow
braised belly is sincere
and elegant, and fatty and sublime
and honest, and playful, and delicate
and joyous, and very friendly.
“i don’t really like lamb” you say
as you fork it around your plate.
“get the fuck out of here” i reply
with nothing but earnest.
okay, so now you must be kidding me
with this “liquid chocolate” course, you’re
palming me off with another fondue
that’s two fondues in the space of an hour
two actual fondues in the space of just
one hour. so i write that down. “too
many fondues spoil the broth?” no,
i’ll come back to that one later.
the editors can sort that one out.
we go right for the cheese
which is advertised as washed rind
but actually is mold ripened
no matter how much i argue with
the chubby waitress
who listens in our conversations
she can’t accept she’s wrong
you nod politely for the bill.
jesus. the header actually says:
“THE DAMAGE” in Romalian type
on thin, glossy, nimbus shade paper
and that’s ruined my entire meal now
what the fuck do you take me for
someone get me a gin and slim
i’m so glad that you’re paying for this.
i can’t wait to tell twitter.