How two cooks, having first planned and prepared their salads and buns, their veggies in chafing dishes; having plated desserts and prepped chicken breasts; how an ancient marinade recipe working on that meat since the day before a wedding reception, ready now for cooking, for serving after prayers, after salads, after buns: what happens when some Dutch Ovens go missing.
Part 1
It is an ancient marinade
which "We braise at three to six,"
says the Banquet Cook with glittering eye
now plating aperitifs.
The Bride and Groom have just arrived;
as have their next of kin;
while over by the open bar
the drinkers raise a din.
The cook holds forth a skinny hand:
"Dutch Ovens." he commands.
I answer "Why not broil the lot ?"
"My pots." he countermands.
He holds me with his glittering eye,
the Wedding Guests can hear.
He whispers like a maniac
"the marinade's time is near !"
A reception line is forming,
so introductions can be made,
but then our banquet cook moans out
"O ancient marinade !"
The shelf is cleared, the cupboard too,
quickly do we look,
below the board, below the knives,
below the robot coupe.
The chef comes up from down the stairs;
out of the depths comes he,
and he sees right and he looks left
and down again goes he.
Faster and faster we search all nooks
but find no iron pots.
Some Wedding Guests are getting drunk;
out in the parking lots.
The bride is radiant in the hall,
white as a rose is she,
the groom is standing by the doors
happy as a man can be.
The Banquet Cook's apoplectic:
"Why is this happening to me ?
You always do this to me Lord !
Do you think this is funny ?"
The Wedding Guests devour
all the crudities and garnish;
so now our manic cook must choose
how these pullets will be furnaced.
Roast pans are filled, ovens opened -
convection ovens - already on high,
stuffed with birds and their wings,
pans on ev'ry shelf, side by side.
With blasting heat and dripping sweat
he swears, he yells, he curses:
Reception Guests recoil in fear;
but cook then shows his nerve;
he seals the ovens, roars,
commands to "Salad-serve'.
And so go plates of garden greens,
topped with shredded carrot,
with cucumbers and tomatoes
as red as seals of merit.
And then the buns, just oven warmed
go out in wicker baskets,
the cook he growls,
he roars and howls;
he makes some wicked rackets.
At length there comes our Albatross,
our Food and Beverage rep,
who in his pious way commands:
"For the sake of all cook, please shush."
They eat their greens, they eat their buns,
as 'round and 'round he goes.
he breaks the ice with banqueters,
restoring apropos.
A good report is heard
where e'er the manager parlays,
our answers all who ask "What next ?"
with "marinade d'poulet."
With jest and joke,
with wit and wisdom
he soothes all diner troubles,
while we watch through oven windows
juices forming bubbles.
God save thee ancient marinade
from the end to which you're fated:
for management decrees: "Too slow,
we'll have to microwave it."
Part 2
Cook eyes the meat thermometers;
on those gauges fixes;
chicken warms and browns,
but the ovens have been nix-ed.
Our timing blown from having searched,
we have no food to serve,
no oven now can save this meal;
we have to show some verve.
We do the hellish thing,
pray all will be okay;
trusting microwaves to save our meat,
save all too slowly roasting hens.
Doors shut, time set, cook mutters
"chicken a la micro-radience".
No dim sum course, no mushroom caps,
no diversions left,
particle waves will heat our mains;
and then we'll brown them all with flames.
"Nuke the bastards, nuke the lot !"
he stokes the grill half-sane with shame.
The salad plates come back on trays
the porters bring them in,
they scrape and stack and pile them up,
the mains must soon begin.
The timers ring, the birds are nuked;
cook's now mad as man can be.
I should speak to him but don't: he looks
too grim to not succeed.
He works his hot and copper rage:
" Microwaved !" he swallows.
Ignoring that, I steam my veg;
spoon mashed potatoes into bowls.
Pan after pan, I continue;
working without pause or waste,
the picture of efficiency,
thermalizing haste.
"Waiter, waiter !" guests call out,
heard above the pot sink.
"Waiter, waiter !" they call again
(they've all had much to drink.)
The very room is tight, O please,
let them keep their seats;
but then a woman gains her feet
and sways on drunken knees.
About, about she reels and shouts
before the father of the bride
whispers to our overseer
"my wife is mortified."
The Cook, oblivious,
intent upon flammables.
"Nine chickens more !" he cries,
"so plate your vegetables !"
Every tongue (though none in drought)
out in the hall uproots:
the drunken girl destroys a stack
of crystal champagne flutes.
Ah well-a-day ! What unkind looks
she gets from old and young !
Our food and bev'rage manager
has almost come undone.
Part 3
The seconds pass, then sev'ral more:
all watch the clean-up; sip their wine.
We're almost ready, almost set.
How glazed their watching eyes.
But then I finish steaming veg.
Cook laughs, and then he sighs:
the grill's free of chickens;
he's poised within its' haze;
marinade char across his cheek,
proud warpaint on his face.
With tongs and forks and knives we work,
we plate and persevere:
as if ancestral spirits inside
hold us to the course we steer.
With throats well slaked, their hunger holds,
we do not slack or slow:
mashed potatoes, veggies, chicken;
arrayed, gravy-ed, garnished, and trayed,
Cook orders all to "Go."
Aromas slake, their hunger breaks;
agape they dg right in.
"Go, go, go." until all have food;
soon all are eating in silence
soon all all tucking in.
"Yes!" I cry, "We've done it!"
All is well, and done.
Without a stop, without a pause
we've fed everyone.
The bride and groom are both well pleased;
the wait was worth their while,
for neither could be happier,
not with our food, their love or life:
they clean their plates and ask for more,
both husband and new wife.
But then - O then - cook rushes out
(O Heaven send us mercy quick,)
for I see now his grief and purpose,
his illuminated tick.
"Alas" (my heart beats loud)
the man is running to confess.
Alas as well, the boss just left
and cannot intercept.
But as I watch with growing dread,
there comes the unexpected:
the woman who shattered the flutes
is naked on the dance floor;
everything about her loosed.
Her lips are red, her looks are free,
her locks, they're yellow as gold;
her skin's as white as bridal gowns,
blinded by wine she's lost all shame:
my blood runs hot and cold.
A hulking man, already stripping;
begins to dance and shout:
"The food is done. Come on, let's dance !"
before he spins about.
The cook's eyes blink, he stops his charge,
slows his steps towards them:
a far-heard whisper, 'cross the room,
curses, which restores him.
All turn to look at both of them-
barefoot near the broken glass
on which they might soon step.
Their gaze is dim, and thick their breath,
the father of the bride stands up,
his composure threatening,
" You're both cut off ! Hear me ?
Put your clothes back on; get dressed ! Now !"
And then sits down, quite miffed.
The mind-fogged duo heed;
return to dress themselves:
they shy their faces from their hosts,
and neither seems that well.
Four times fifty hands and legs
(cross and uncross 'round the room.)
Music stops, the reception waits,
although it soon resumes.
Their clothes now upon themselves,
their nakedness concealed,
everything is back in place
with nothing more revealed.
Part 4
"I fear my ancient marinade,"
(the floor is now the cook's
as he begins his confession)
"was in fact micro-nuked."
"I used ionizing waves
to speed up the cooking,
if nothing else I should have roasted,
when my Dutch ovens went missing."
"Alas, alas, I say alas,"
(alas, he keeps confessing.)
"Let none among you believe
it was worth the pastor's blessing."
Some attempt to assure him:
declare they loved the taste:
but he answers: "The one who taught me
would have tossed them in the waste."
I look upon him standing fast,
three men mocking as they sway,
he shifts as if on rotting pride
with still more truths to say.
I look to heaven, I try to pray,
yet before my thoughts align
a voice like judgement comes from him;
unflinchingly self maligned.
He picks his words, says to the three,
"You think it's funny to care so much,
to have high standards as my guides,
so mock me if you must but..."
"We must, we must" laugh the guys.
A cold sweat forms on both his arms;
shakes and groans pour out next:
the look with which he holds the men,
has everyone transfixed.
A kitchen's curse can drag to hell
a spirit from on high,
but O Guests, more horrible yet
is the curse in that man's eye:
"For seven days and seven nights
you will each pray to die."
The mocking men stop in their tracks,
the bar crowd starts to grin:
the room so quickly quiets
the bride's mum drops her gin.
Cook continues prophesying,
like April shower rain,
"You will neither rest nor slumber
each will suffer belly ache:
loss of guts may make you humbler."
Beyond the shadow he has cast
he stares like they are rats
who eat in bins of fast food chains,
craving meals already rotting
fried deep by poly-fats.
Within the shadows he has cast
I watch his eyes like fire
they're glossy green and every blast
coils about those three men,
shrivelled by his blazing ire.
"O happy cooking days," he states,
"when one finds joy in food:
for then springs love for cuisine arts,
inspiring more than fast food fare:
O how the saints can ward us when
diners learn to eat with care."
The self-same moment that I pray
that all this stress will end
the Food and Beverage manager
sends waves of dessert trolleys in.
Part 5
O sweets ! They are such forgiving things,
beloved from pole to pole.
Pastry chefs must praise be given,
for creating their treats from Heaven,
becalming ev'ry soul.
The simple pleasures of the board
are anti-dotes to griefs,
now among our guests infilling
each to each with peace.
I move, and do not feel my limbs:
I am so light - almost -
I think I've fallen into sleep,
become a floating ghost.
But soon I hear a moaning sound,
from whence I can't quite tell,
yet then its source breaks through my daze,
ringing my nerves like bells.
The banquet cook has lost his way;
a hundred faces watch him.
To and fro he races 'round the hall
waving his ancient recipe
as if it somehow haunts him.
But no more words are uttered;
his pacings ebb like tides:
with sorrow over his behaviour
he begins to apologize.
The thick depths of his grief are cleft,
upon the Bride and her Mum:
she lifts her glass to cook and says,
"Enough, enough of this now!
your food was perfectly yum"
Reprieved by kindness, the cook
returns to the kitchen,
the grill top and microwaves now clean;
so he takes a bite of chicken.
He groans, he stirs, he nearly leaves;
he stays, barely lifts his eyes:
he seems to drift, as if in dreams,
but in one of those revives.
The dishpit whirs, the night wears on,
he utters no more words,
the marinade is said and done,
it was his pride and joy,
he knows he was a fool before
throwing tantrums like a boy.
In the stairwell with the cook
I find him lost in thought,
he doesn't seem to grasp the fact
the taste mattered more than the pot.
"I ruined the reception though;
embarrassed a bride and groom.
microwaves be damned.
But where are my pots, where?
They have to be place, in some room?"
And then he groans, drops his arms,
each breath it seems his last,
low sounds rise out from his mouth;
then from his body pass.
'Round and around fly all his thoughts,
back to him dart again,
that unanswered question lingers,
their unknown whereabouts remain.
Sometimes I hear reception sounds,
laughters, chats and musics;
sometimes I hear the dishes washing
the clatter of plates and saucers,
sometimes cacophonics.
And then I hear songs, instruments,
sometimes words of ballads,
other times a line dance tune
as I wrap uneaten salads.
We clean, and so the night goes on.
The aftermath of banquets;
quiet descends, tensions dulled.
We feed the serving staff,
who disappear with their food
with evening stories told.
Silence spreads as we finish;
no single word is breathed
from the banquet cook who sits
as if his soul's surceased.
Under us now, on the floor below,
down where the walk-ins are,
chef's no longer at his desk,
he's already locked his office.
He rarely says goodbye at night,
but more often, seems to vanish.
The banquet cook is still numb,
he's starting to make me nervous;
for I still have the line to run:
orders to fill for room service.
So I study the cook,
a man I thought impervious.
Then like a pawing horse let go,
he makes a sudden pounce,
he flings himself into my face
with something to announce.
How long he holds me by my coat,
I cannot really tell;
I try to shake him off of me,
before he cries out from depths;
"I will never again be well!"
"I embarrassed us, I should quit.
O by him who died on the cross,
my temper is my curse;
my career is probably lost."
The spirit of the cook I know
verges now on fracture:
he loves his work, he loves to feed
but doesn't love t' manufacture.
His agony is honest:
an ancient recipe may be
a wondrous thing but
throwing the tantrum was folly.
Part 6
Cook's Voice:
"So tell me line cook, speak the truth,
you dislike short orders,
why do you cook fast food, I know
you think it's onerous ?"
My Voice
"I sometimes think I'm a wage slave,
in a honest occupation.
If I quit where would I go ?
I live in a fast food nation ...
The problem with all such jobs,
with all line work, are the poor wages;
but compared to factory cheques
I'd earn more making microwaves."
Cook's Voice
"So why frustrate yourself this way
if manufacturing would pay more ?"
My Voice
"I would die in a factory;
a death from bored to tears."
(And then I turn to his own fears.)
"They all loved the food,
go home, roll a joint, all's good.
The drunks were truly drunk,
the sober were truly not,
those three brothers were goofs;
you're one spice in a thickened plot.
Besides,the marinade was magic.
Things could have been disastrous,
but weren't, because in the end
it's taste alone that masters.
A microwave is just a tool,
used when necessary;
but when you grilled the flare back in,
they all found it exemplary."
The banquet cook walks away,
let's go of the dinner now over:
he's lost his temper more than once,
but twelve Dutch ovens, never.
He's like one on a lonesome road
who walks in fear and dread
but having faced himself walks on,
looking inward never more,
so cook shrugs off this night,
signs out, goes home to bed.
Soon there exhales a sigh from me,
though not a move or word I've said,
for I've not yet eaten
and want to taste the marinade.
It raises my hair, it flames my cheeks,
like meadow-gales of spring -
it mingles strangely in my buds
yet feels like welcoming.
O gladly, gladly I devour
all the chicken of the hour;
slowly, slowly will I savour
all the spice with all its flavour.
O dream of joy, this is indeed
the lighthouse of his craft,
this is his height, this is his church;
this is my peer's last laugh.
Drifting over many a taste,
I sob and then I pray,
"O let me be awake, my God.
Or let me sleep always."
The chicken breast is as tender
(as thawed meat can be)
but O spices of his secret,
you grow new life in me !
The night shines bright, the kitchen too,
the flavours course their ways;
yet even as my shift winds down,
that gracious taste remains.
My blood is alight with living food,
still rising from my palate,
full of art and craftsmanship
I almost can't explicate.
A little later from that hour
its forces still endure,
like memories of paradise:
O Lord, what tastes they were.
Each thing I've cooked up on this line:
chicken fingers with fries,
club houses, burgers and wings;
for all of it I cry.
O seraph bands, please wave your hands,
and let endurance flow,
save me from this thankless task,
and from another nacho.
O seraph bands, please wave your hands !
But of course they don't, or can't,
no salvation from this job arrives,
so I'll quit my unhappy rant.
But soon I hear the crash of dishes,
hear the porters cheering,
my thoughts return from all my wants,
watch the broken-cup clearing.
The Steward and his merry crew
I hear them laughing loud.
O Lord of Heaven t'is a joy
that comes without a cloud.
And then a Wedding Guest requests,
some marmite if we have it,
he asks for English yeast:
a dollop upon some toast.
I prepare it for him,
for after all I'm his host.
Part 7
The marmite crowd loves its taste;
although it's odd to me.
They love its yeasty virtues,
food extractions from their youths,
fond flavours of 'old country'.
They'll eat it fore dawn, noon or eve -
some with cukes for lunch;
a flavour wholly lost on me:
it tastes like old oak stumps.
The waitresses near, I hear them talk,
"Why was the cook so strange ?
"What difference did it really make
that he couldn't roast the chicken ?"
" He's a jerk if you ask me.
He's creepy and he's weird.
As if anyone out there cares
about his bloody marinade,
They should fire him for losing it.
he's always having fit !."
Skeletons in brown uniforms
they look at me and laugh.
When the gravy train is heavy
with those that feed like owls and wolves
how is a cook to act ?
"My God, you two are stupid."
The dishdog throws a towel.
"You don't know anything 'bout food."
he claims as he stacks a bowl.
A thought comes to me while standing there,
(I neither speak nor moan)
the thought is what I'd serve myself
if this kitchen was - by me - owned.
Under tasks my thoughts work on, they
wrestle with all they raise,
they reach full, burst their forms
like bubbles in parades.
Shunned by reality and by fact,
I have to give it up:
most people eat as if attempting
suicide by food.
As a cook, I'm accessory
To their declining good.
Upon that realization
I cut the wedding cake;
keep my attention there
and subdivisions make.
I cut three slabs - fifty pieces each,
clean the knife with ev'ry slicing.
The smell of marmite up my nose,
countered by the sugared icing.
I take the cake into the hall,
the party nearing full swing,
laughter abounds, as does the dance:
most of the men still in their seats;
Achy Breaky Heart plays on,
women partner women.
But when I leave the cakes,
winding back through guests,
I can smell the spilt beer stink
rising from the carpets.
Drunks are sleeping in their seats
while the sober chat in quiet,
all about the room are traces
of a wedding manic.
There are faces infused
with the wonders of life.
So much hope abounding
for one new husband; one new wife.
But now my shift is over,
my duty done for this shift,
yet still my thoughts find now rest,
my prayers don't sit right.
I leave like night - unseen - going,
'cept by the dishwasher,
for I know that last time he worked
he left the Dutch ovens unseasoned,
rusting, hidden in his locker.
He didn't know tonight's menu;
hasn't re-seasoned them yet.
Saying nothing, I leave,
knowing that tomorrow
the banquet cook will think
his pots were borrowed.
O Wedding Guest this soul has been
starved upon this cook's line,
so lonely t'was, that God himself
placed no orders this time.
O sweeter than the marriage feast,
T'is sweeter far to me,
to ride my bicycle through the quad
of the university.
To ride a bicycle through the dark
and to the students' nods,
while each of them to futures wend:
the men, the girls, the loving friends;
the youths and drunken sods.
Farewell, farewell ! But this I tell
to thee, thou Wedding Guest !
He that prays well, lives well,
whether man, bird or beast.
So let them be blest, who love best
food of life, whether small or great:
for the God of Love gave us taste
for us to appreciate.
A Marinade, whose time is ripe,
whose age is cured with spice,
is like a Wedding reception
remembered all your life.
Live like you are now aware
of every sense you border;
gladder and still wiser grow
(and try to avoid short order.)
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