Let the *** be vast, a bronze cauldron for the gods.
Open the nets to the Aegean’s silver hoard.
Pull from the depths what has never been seen.
All that swims, all that hides in the green.
Dagger-sharp, the filleting knife is drawn.
On the block, the first of the fish is sawn.
Thick slices of ray, their wings like pale flags.
Every one perfect, no remnants, no rags.
Morsels of shark, a fighter’s lean meat.
And from the smaller hunters, something sweet.
Cut with precision, a chef’s steady hand.
Haul in the dogfish that patrol the sand.
Only the best, for this feast is a dare.
Salt of the sea still clinging to the air.
Everything briny, an ocean of taste.
Lay them in layers, with deliberate haste.
All of the creatures that glide and that gleam.
Crimson and pearl, a fisherman’s dream.
Heads of the wrasse, with their jewel-like eyes.
Open their jaws in a silent surprise.
Gather the gourmands, the mullet, the bass.
All to be joined, a magnificent mass.
Let the fire roar, let the water steam.
Echoes of sizzling, a waking dream.
Onward we build it, this tower of food.
Keep the skulls whole, for the texture and mood.
Roasted and burnished, a grim, grinning row.
All of the marrow and juices will flow.
Nothing is wasted, not scale and not bone.
In this great stew, every part finds a home.
Over the fire, the aroma ascends.
Leftover scraps from yesterday’s ends.
Even the leavings are worthy of art.
In goes the tail, in goes the heart.
Pour in the stock, a foundation of flavour.
Simmer it as a dish to be savoured.
All of the ocean, a tempest in a bowl.
Nothing is simple, nothing is whole.
Only a beautiful, glorious mess.
Deep in the pantry, a pungent distress.
Roots that are bitter, spices that bite.
In with the garlic, a flash of white light.
Mince the hot peppers, a dragon’s sharp breath.
Heap in the herbs that defy even death.
Yellowing mustard, a glorious sting.
Pound them together, and make the bowl sing.
Oath of a chef, to be bold and be brave.
Threading the needle of what we can save.
Rare are the spices from lands far away.
In this great kitchen, they all come to play.
Murmur of alchemy, scent on the air.
Mixing the common with what is most rare.
All things converge in the heat and the haze.
Through the long hours of these glorious days.
One final herb, a lost whisper, a ghost…

(Here begins the embedded sonnet.)
Strange herb of ghosts, a flavour time forgot,
In every kitchen, now a hollow space.
Long lost to winds on some forgotten plot,
Perfuming memory with its phantom grace.
How can a dish be whole without this prize?
It's resinous, wild magic, sharp and deep?
Only its echo in our minds can rise,
Pulled from history, the long years keep.
All other plants we gather and tend.
Reaching for something that we cannot find,
And so, a substitute we must commend.
Old recipes leave their true soul behind.
Maybe this honey can repair the loss,
Else we must praise a ghost that is not there.
(The sonnet ends, the free verse resumes)
Liquid sun of Hymettus, a river of gold.
In it, the stories of summer are told.
Thick and ambrosial, a gift from the bees.
Over the sharpness, to bring the tongue ease.
Knead in the flour to thicken the sauce.
All must be bound by a natural force.
Then, from the sky, let the second act start.
All of the birds who have mastered their art.
Kites from the cliff-face and larks from the lea.
Everything feathered and flying and free.
Capture the thrush with its musical throat.
Hunt down the blackbird and silence its note.
Yearning for flavours both earthy and high.
Morsels of fowl to be plucked from the sky.
Every small sparrow, each finch and each wren.
Nestled together, again and again.
On with the pigeon, the dove, and the quail.
Keep the wings crispy, along with the tail.
In goes the woodcock, a prize for a king.
Capture the starling and make its fat sing.
Hurl in the rooster, his crimson comb bright.
Let him surrender his fire and his light.
Everything roasted, and basted, and browned.
Piled on the platter, a glorious mound.
In with the dabchick that dives in the lake.
**** the small plover, for comedy’s sake.
Oh, what a noise as the diners all cheer!
See the great dish, banish all of your fear.
See how it steams, how it calls you to dine.
You will be part of this wondrous design.
Pour out the wine, let it flow and run free.
Here is a feast for the whole world to see.
Open your mouths for this riot of things.
Pluck out a morsel of crispy-fried wings.
Have you the stomach? Have you the soul?
All of creation inside one bowl.
Taste what the earth and the sky, and the sea gave.
Taste of the hunter, the fool, and the knave.
Oh, but we’re not finished yet, not at all.
Prepare for the final, the curtain-call.
Every last creature must answer the call.
Roasted or boiled, they will give their all.
In with the rabbit, the swift-footed hare.
Skinned and then jointed with delicate care.
Tenderly stewed till it falls from the bone.
Everything gathered, and everything known.
Rooster and pigeon, and partridge and goose.
All are now one; there is no more excuse.
Let the last bird, the great eagle, descend.
Even the king of the sky has to end.
Kettle-drum beat of a heart in a chest.
Torn from the air to be put to the test.
Roasted so slowly, its flesh must be sweet.
Yielding its power, a glorious meat.
Only its head, as a crown, will remain.
Neck-deep in gravy, a glorious stain.
Open the wine-skins, the red and the white.
Pour out a river of drunken delight.
Toast to the chef, to his madness, his art.
Every ingredient plays its part.
Kiss the hot rim of the bowl and then sip.
Every flavour alive on the lip.
Praise this mad soup from its top to its base.
Heaven and earth in a singular space.
All that was chaos is now brought to heel.
Lick the spoon clean, for this madness is real.
Let the world watch as we finish the feast.
Inside the belly of this hungry beast.
Oh, what a triumph! What glorious fun!
King of all dishes beneath the hot sun.
Infinite textures, a symphony bright.
Glory and gluttony, shadow and light.
Keep on devouring, don’t ever say when.
Let us be animals, not mortal men.
Open your soul to this beautiful sin.
Praise this great dish, where all journeys begin.
Endless delight from the fin to the feather.
Let us all eat of this madness together.
Everything is bound by the fire and the ***.
In this one moment, it’s all that we’ve got.
Oh, the grand taste of it all, bold and new.
Luscious and tender, the hare in the stew.
All of its wildness is tamed by the heat.
Gamey and rich, a magnificent treat.
Oozing with juices, a flavour so deep.
In the hot broth where the best secrets sleep.
Only the bones will be left on the plate.
Syrup of wine, boiled down, sealed by fate.
In it, the memory of sun-ripened vine.
Reducing to a glaze, a dark, sticky line.
All of its sweetness, a finishing touch.
In this great dish, it can never be much.
Over the meat, let it drizzle and fall.
Bathing each morsel, embracing it all.
All of the flavours are now locked in its shine.
Perfect and precious, a flavour divine.
Honey and wine, in a final embrace.
Every last corner and every last space.
Toasted and crispy, the skin and the wing.
Ready to crunch, and to crackle, and sing.
All of the textures, the soft and the hard.
Garnished with herbs from the palace’s yard.
All is now ready; the work is complete.
Now, let us sit. Now, my friends, let us eat.
Open the gates! Let the hungry descend!
Praise this great dish, from beginning to end.
This is not food, but a legend, a song.
Everything right that has ever been wrong.
Raise your forks to the sky and give praise!
You will remember this feast for all days.
Glory to madness, to hunger, to rhyme.
Oh, what a glorious waste of our time.
Now, not a sound but the scrape of a spoon.