After a very nice book launch last night at The Dock Kitchen, Ladbroke Grove, London, to celebrate Chef/Owner Stevie Parle's "The Dock Kitchen Cookbook", I was trying to think of a light verse about chefs, etc. I remembered a poem I wrote a few years ago, mildly influenced by, but not necessarily about, the blessed Keith Floyd and here it is:
Keith Flan, the cookery man,
culinary tricks in a frying pan,
simmer and boil and saute and steam,
loaded with butter and whipping cream.
Each meal preparation called for a toast,
a few guzzles of wine to cool down the roast,
years of experience in varied cuisine
had sated his thirst from neck to spleen.
On TV, in books, he showed he was proper,
skilled with his skillet, adept with his chopper,
nifty with knives and handy with whisks,
willing to take a few catering risks.
But one risk too many, so sad to relate,
his lifestyle caught up and determined his fate,
with one slurp too many of special reserve,
he pickled himself into an hors d'oeuvre.
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