This is a poem that was written by a customer some time ago unfortunally
I cannot remember his name but I thought I would share it with you
At
Thornton’s Place
(Thornton’s
is a restaurant in Dublin, which recently won its second star from Michelin)
The
roasted Pigeon came with a bold artistic stroke- not the quail egg, fried,
Eyeing
like Cyclops from the plate;
Nor
the shallot tatin
(though
perfectly caramelized);
not
even the little bird’s liver,
fluffed
into a mousse pate,
could
reveal the indelible fever of the
chef-who, it appears,
will
have his way! It was, you see,
the
creature’s claw-reptilian,
clutching
death in its delicate digits
and
still attached to a tiny thigh
laid
across the crisped rare breast,
which
cried out the man’s pure deviltry.
“
Thornton, you son- of –a- bitch”, (said half in dread and half with secret
relish
for
the confrontation soon to come),
“You
expect me to look at the thumbnail on this scaly limb while I’m eating?”
This
dish stared back, completely deaf and equally dumb to my rhetoric.
The
was but one reply; begin the feast
(trying
more for zest than trepidation),
by
savoring with lusty smacking lips
(and
also furtive finger licking)
a
wine and truffle sauce so
light
it
flew like ambrosia from plate to palate.
Long
before the cleansing salad
Or
the platter of cheese or the dark café,
I’d
managed to suck the whole claw dry
(nails
included) of all ethereal essence,
surrendering
gladly as I did along the way
lingering
thoughts of my previous bitching.
Defeated,
sated, I muttered sotto voce:
“
Another Irish poet born in another Irish Kitchen.”
