If I had a private chef. (Dedicated to Ashley Wong.)

 

 

If I had a private chef, to cook for me each day,
Rib-eyes from Kobe beef, in all their rich display.
Seared to tender perfection, with a pat of truffle butter,
Roasted and delightful, a delicacy like no other.

Wild berries from the Arctic, Fuyu persimmons rare,
Garnishing my platter, like jewels beyond compare.
Mangoes ripe from tropics, with their succulent delight,
A cornucopia of flavors, every day and night.

In my chef's skilled hands, greenery is not a bore,
Rare heirloom tomatoes, who could ask for more?
Tender greens and root vegetables, in colors bright and bold,
Sauteed in garlic-infused oils, a feast to behold.

A tangle of saffron linguine, sweet balsamic reduction,
Luxury in every bite, such edible seduction.
Risotto with morels and aged Parmesan,
Each spoonful a symphony, a gastronomic grand slam.

The sauces - oh the sauces! Velvet, rich and deep,
In velouté and beurre blanc, we're far too gone to sleep.
With cognac, cream, and caviar, they coat each savory piece,
Indulgence in each bite, our gluttony's release.

Gorging on such treasures, a feast for every sense,
The decadence is intoxicating, it’s all so immense.
Yet, beneath the sweet allure, a discomfort starts to grow,
A twisting, churning, gnawing pain, a sign of woe.

Alas, the bitter irony, as the pleasure turns to pain,
Feasting in such abundance, no longer our gain.
What was once a paradise, becomes a gastronomic hell,
In the symphony of flavors, a dissonant bell.

Desperate for a remedy, to the drug store I rush,
Through the aisles I wander, in a fevered hush.
Reaching for a savior, my salvation in pink,
A bottle of Pepto Bismol, to save me from the brink.

Sweet relief in chalky sips, my stomach starts to cool,
In the face of gourmet excess, a humbling tool.
I dream of simple broths, of grains and greens so light,
A stark contrast to the indulgence of last night.

My private chef stands ready, with renewed culinary fervor,
Yet my palate yearns for less, a simpler flavor.
There's wisdom in this indulgence, and in its painful cost,
In our quest for opulence, something else is lost.

Perhaps the finest banquet, is not in rich meats and gold,
But in the simple pleasures, our senses to behold.
A lesson learned from indigestion, a truth hard to swallow,
In our hunger for the finest feast, we forget how to wallow.