Chef's Kiss (poem)
after Anthony Bourdain (6/25/56 - 6/8/18), and for Maria Robins-Somerville
1984
"Watch out! She has a gun!" called out the Cité Universitaire
philology student working as a summertime clerk in
student housing where attempting to book
a room in the 13th arrondissement, at about 13:00 hours
on the 13th of July in a language I could not speak.
I was not packing heat. I was not carrying a fire-
arm. “Watch out!" He said again, before ducking for
cover behind the high desk. "She’s from the Bronx! She has a gun!"
Later that week, a day or two following the commemoration of
the storming of the Bastille, the graduate student took me to lunch
at a joint in Les Halles. Les Halles struck me as a French
translation of a Woodside Queens diner located in a shopping
center. Only it was Paris! The graduate fellow and I
seized a couple of trademark cane-thatch chairs.
We seated ourselves at a two-top in plein air drizzle. The fine point
precipitation was nice. I didn’t know enough French
to say anything. The doctoral fellow ordered steak frites.
I chose Salade Niçoise. The hard-boiled eggs —
I had to eat around them, because
I didn’t really know what it was I was asking for.
I learned to say "Les Halles" without eliding the “s.”
***
1995
Two years would pass before the yet celebrated Les Halles
executive chef might be found dicing, saucing,
blanching at the Park Avenue South brasserie,
but could it be that his ghost had come before?
And was my friend Gayelle was wearing her STOP LOOKING
AT MY TITS button on her low-cut blouse
while tending bar that night? I cannot recall
but I remember that she and our friend Catherine rejoiced
our pair of infants entered the restaurant in car-seats
borne like baby royals by their progenitors.
Catherine seated us at a four-top.
Perhaps it was I who should have been wearing
the STOP LOOKING AT MY TITS badge
that night, because all evening long
Catherine shuttled from the bar to our table to the kitchen,
pushing fast through the swing-doors in each of two directions
laughing, returning each time to our table burning with updates.
The line chef, sous chef, and dishwashers, she reported, were peeping
through the circular double-door glass, between preps and plating,
at my nurslings and breasts with two-fold appreciation
for the double-barreled blend
of pin-up pulchritude and an alimentation delivery system without which,
the survival of the species might never have been possible.
***
2007
One night upon entering her bedroom, her father and I found Maria
12 and a twin, asleep with her lamp on and a copy of Cooks Illustrated
open upon her chest. Was she dreaming about fruiting bodies of fungus?
Was a vast network of microscopic threads germinating in her newbie foodie
dreamscape? Bearing unconscious fruit in her ripe and hungry mind in all directions?
We turned out her light, and wondered aloud, as we walked down the stairs,
whether over whether to direct her to Kitchen Confidential. We knew she would like it,
but there were swear words and that troubling vignette at the start—
A catering crew member bones the bride at her wedding reception.
We had reservations but went ahead and gave the story to our innocent
despite them, because the fleshly words were done to perfection,
the rising of bread is holy, and really, not much matters
more than spice, communion, pilgrimage and recounting the tales.
(end of poem)
Posted June 8, 2024,
Cambridge, MA
Notes:
*Cooks Illustrated is the name of a publication.
Kitchen Confidential is the name of Anthony Bourdain's 2007 book.
I wrote a first draft of this poem on June 8, 2018.
Cambridge, MA