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Title: The Gourmand
Author: Harry Graham [
More Titles by Graham]
(A Ballad of Reading Grill)
He did not wear his swallow-tail,
But a simple dinner-coat;
For once his spirits seemed to fail,
And his fund of anecdote.
His brow was drawn and damp and pale,
And a lump stood in his throat.
I never saw a person stare,
With looks so dour and blue,
Upon the square of bill-of-fare
We waiters call the "M'noo,"
And at ev'ry dainty mentioned there,
From entrée to ragout.
With head bent low, and cheeks aglow,
He viewed the groaning board,
For he wondered if the chef would show
The treasures of his hoard,
When a voice behind him whispered low,
"Sherry or 'ock, my lord?"
Gods! What a tumult rent the air,
As, with a frightful oath,
He seized the waiter by the hair
And cursed him for his sloth;
Then, grumbling like some stricken bear,
Angrily answered "Both!"
For each man drinks the thing he loves,
As tonic, dram or drug;
Some do it standing, in their gloves,
Some seated, from a jug;
The upper class from slim-stemmed glass,
The masses from a mug.
....*....*....*....*
The wine was slow to bring him woe,
But when the meal was through,
His wild remorse at ev'ry course
Each moment wilder grew.
For he who thinks to mix his drinks
Must mix his symptoms too.
Did he regret that tough noisette,
And the tougher tournedos,
The oysters dry, and the game so high,
And the soufflé flat and low,
Which the chef had planned with a heavy hand,
And the waiters served so slow?
Yet each approves the things he loves,
From caviare to pork;
Some guzzle cheese or new-grown peas,
Like a cormorant or stork;
The poor man's wife employs a knife,
The rich man's mate a fork.
Some gorge, forsooth, in early youth,
Some wait till they are old;
Some take their fare from earthenware,
And some from polished gold.
The gourmand gnaws in haste because
The plates so soon grow cold.
Some eat too swiftly, some too long,
In restaurant or grill;
Some, when their weak insides go wrong,
Try a postprandial pill.
For each man eats his fav'rite meats,
Yet each man is not ill.
He does not sicken in his bed,
Through a night of wild unrest,
With a snow-white bandage round his head,
And a poultice on his breast,
'Neath the nightmare weight of the things he ate
And omitted to digest.
....*....*....*....*
We know not whether meals be short,
Or whether meals be long;
All that we know of this resort
Proves that there's something wrong,
That the soup is weak and tastes of port,
And the fish is far too strong.
The bread they bake is quite opaque,
The butter full of hair;
Defunct sardines and flaccid "greens"
Are all they give us there.
Such cooking has been known to make
A common person swear.
And when misguided people feed,
At eve or afternoon,
Their harassed ears are never freed
From the fiddle and bassoon,
Which sow dyspepsia's subtlest seed,
With a most evil spoon.
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes,
Is a pastime rare and grand;
But to eat of fish or fowl or fruits
To a Blue Hungarian Band
Is a thing that suits nor men nor brutes,
As the world should understand.
Such music baffles human talk,
And gags each genial guest;
A grillroom orchestra can baulk
All efforts to digest,
Till the chops will not lie still, but walk
All night upon one's chest.
....*....*....*....*
Six times a table here he booked,
Six times he sat and scann'd
The list of dishes, badly cooked
By the chef's unskilful hand;
And I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the band.
He did not swear or tear his hair,
But ordered wine galore,
As though it were some vintage rare
From an old Falernian store;
With open mouth he slaked his drouth,
And loudly called for more.
He was the type that waiters know,
Who simply lives to feed,
Who little cares what food they show
If it be food indeed,
Who, when his appetite is low,
Falls back upon his greed.
For each man eats his fav'rite meats,
(Provided by his wife);
Or cheese or chalk, or peas or pork,
(For such, alas! is life!)
The rich man eats them with a fork,
The poor man with a knife.
[The end]
Harry Graham's poem: Gourmand
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