rôti sans pareill
Take the last bustard in France
which is stuffed
with a turkey
with a goose
with a pheasant
with a chicken
with a duck
with a guinea fowl
with a teal
with a woodcock
with a partridge
with a plover
with a lapwing
with a quail
with a thrush
with a lark
with an ortolan bunting
–> which lies nested in a fire of Armagnac
–> which hovers, scenting the dying breath of François Mitterand
with a garden warbler
with an olive at its center.
Put your ear to its gooseberry flesh.
You can hear the ocean.
You can see your house from here.
You can hear an echo chamber of songbirds.
They trill a bongo hymn of hollow bones.
Trill with the jelly crusted anguish of foie gras on little toasts.
Trill with the DNA of a Citroën full of rendered horses.
“You bastard. How could you do such a thing to an olive?”
Almanach des Gourmands, 1807
Grimod de La Reynière,
© 2013 by Boinkaz. Image used under Wikimedia Creative Commons license.