DUBAI -- There are gold-flaked pizzas and gold-injected soups, gold-dusted french fries and gold-infused Bloody Marys, cakes and pies topped with gold frosting. An Italian restaurant offers gold flakes in lieu of Parmesan cheese. In the past year, several major hotels have begun offering cappuccinos infused with gold.
WSJ
Inside the hotel dining room
loud voices could be heard to boom;
rude tourists with their manners bold
demanded biscuits dipped in gold.
The chef did not know what to do.
He turned to his loyal kitchen crew
and said he had no gold to spare,
and then began to pull his hair.
"Oh woe is me!" said he in grief.
"What shall I do to find relief?"
"My customers will surely leave
if something rich I can't conceive."
Just then, through noisome kitchen drain
a little man popped up quite plain.
His nose curved down to meet his chin;
he had a leering wicked grin.
"I'm at your service" he began,
this tiny little homely man.
"I'll spin you gold from yonder heap
of plastic spoons and forks so cheap."
"And you can do this?" asked the cook,
as with great sanguineness he shook.
"If this is true, just name your price --
I'll give you wine or meat or spice!"
The little homunculus bowed
and gave an evil laugh aloud.
"Please keep your foodstuffs, cuisinier;
I only want what's truly fair."
He sidled up to the sous chef
and murmured in a low bass clef:
"I want your mix for vichyssoise
so I can have the world's applause."
"Mon Dieu!" the chef cried mournfully.
"That is my cherished recipe."
"If I should give it up to you
I'd be in such an awful stew!"
The little man, he shrugged a bit
and waited as the sound waves hit
from customers whose chant was brief:
"Now give us strudel with gold leaf!"
The chef, he was a beaten soul.
He threw down his clay batter bowl
and made a bargain with the imp,
although it left him feeling limp.
The little man said "By the way
if you should guess my name today
I'll forfeit that there recipe
and all your gold will be scot-free"
And so that wicked little rogue
put all that plastic through a drogue,
and out came gold dust by the ounce --
enough to make the chef's eyes bounce.
Handed quietly a locket
when the busboy picked his pocket,
the chef now knew the wee man's name,
and made of him a silly game.
"Your name must be Sir Himmelfarht"
did say the chef, "or Miss Descartes?"
"Pooh! Pooh!' the imp replied with pride.
"Your feeble guesses I deride!"
"And now I'm done, as promised I --
the recipe you will supply!"
The chef looked up, the chef looked down;
he mimed a most dolorous frown.
"Oh very well" he sighed at last.
"Dear Rumpelstiltskin, write it fast!"
"Say what!? Have you discovered me?"
shrieked Rumpelstiltskin angrily.
Then Rumpelstiltskin stamped his feet
and turned much redder than a beet.
He ground his teeth and shook his head
so hard that he fell down, quite dead.
Now hotel patrons dine on quail
wrapped in gold foil as thick as kale.
And for dessert their hot cross buns
with molten gold so gaily runs.
And with the gold dust left behind,
the chef and all his crew have lined
their pockets with a goodly sum --
Thanks, Rumpelstiltskin . . . you old bum!
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