Food – KensView

Perch

Beneath a Great Lake’s breadth,
the lake perch prowls,
its scales a flash of golden sheen,
a silken shimmer between rock and reed.

It moves like a whisper,
a dart of yellow amid ink-dark depths,
touched by the secrets the waters hold
in their cool, profound embrace.

The waters speak in waves,
and the perch listens
to the call of the river, the push of the wind,
the arc of the sun’s reach over cold stone.

It is both hunter and the hunted,
finding home in tangled beds of weeds,
sliding through the dark to feed,
then back to the depths where it belongs.

And then alas,
it encounters the world of man,
stopped short by nets or hooks
for the cook’s clever craft.

Steamed, fried, baked—
its delicate flesh, tender and sweet,
is served on the plates or fine china
of a restaurant table.

La soupe à l’oignon

The air’s alive with the scent of the night,
As lanterns flicker and the stars glow bright.
I follow my nose to a small, cozy place,
Where laughter and warmth fill an intimate space.

Le garçon draws near, with charm and a grin,
“Bonjour, monsieur! Would you like to begin?”
My heart strikes a beat, anticipation runs deep;
I nod and smile as my order begins to steep.

Then arrives a bowl, like a treasure unveiled,
With crusty brown bread and cheese artfully scaled.
Golden and bubbling, a fragrant embrace,
The steam curls upward, a hearty, sweet grace.

I take my first sip, and the world melts away,
Caramelized onions in the broth holding sway.
WIth savory whispers of fresh garlic and thyme,
Each spoonful’s a melody, a moment sublime.

The richness enwraps me, and images ignite
Of family kitchens with warm feelings ever tight.
In this far-off café, with its laughter and cheer,
I taste that connection, everything’s so clear.

With each bite I savor, a bridge I build up
From my world to theirs with the meal I now sup.
In the depth of my soul I’ve learned to believe,
That flavors that bind us do not ever leave.

Steak tartare 2*

In a hall where snob Poli-Sci students dine,
A shy American sits, sipping some wine,
A plate slides before him, a curious sight,
Steak tartare gleaming, a culinary fright.

Crimson and raw, with a glimmer of spice,
He squints at the dish, not feeling too nice.
“Is this what’s to eat?” he reacts with a frown,
“This cold slab of meat? I’m not putting that down!”

With courage mustered, he approaches the cook,
“Pardon,” he says, with a nervous little look,
“Could you please heat this? I can’t even begin.”
The chef raises an eyebrow, but shrugs with a grin.

To the lad’s surprise, a strange ripple runs through,
The French students whisper, “Is this something new?”
One by one, they nod, “We’ll have ours like that,”
And soon the cook’s station’s abuzz with chat.

“Let’s sizzle that steak, make it juicy and warm,
Forget the finesse, let’s embrace a new norm!”
From tartare to grilled, a transformation’s begun,
In the heart of Paris, a new dish has been born!

Laughter erupts and all the suspense deflates,
As flavors unite across cultural gates.
L’etranger smiles, feeling bold in the fray,
In the Land of Chefs, he’s finding his way.

So here in this place, where traditions collide,
A meal is now shared with common ground as guide;
A lesson in flavor from a Yankee guy
Gives the cynical French a reason to try.

*What really happened.

Steak tartare 1*

In the glow of streetlights
on Boulevard St. Michel,
he sits, a young wanderer,
maps tucked in his pocket,
the scent of history swirling
with the smoke of Gauloises,
Paris murmuring secrets
in the language of bantering couples
and clinking glasses.

The waiter, a figure of cool elegance,
leans in, an arch of brow,
and presents the dish,
a vibrant mound of crimson,
its sheen glistening like the Seine
under the watchful gaze of the moon.
“Steak tartare,” he says,
with the flourish of an artist,
a daring invitation
to plunge into the unknown.

He hesitates, heart racing,
the pulse of the city humming
in his ears, a distant jazz
echoing from a café corner.
It’s just meat, he thinks,
but in this moment,
it feels like a leap,
a test of courage,
a bite into the very marrow
of experience.

Fork poised, he relishes
the tang of capers,
the bite of shallots,
the whispers of mustard,
a symphony of flavors
unfurling on his tongue.
Each mouthful, a declaration,
each chew, a step further
from the familiar,
the mundane of Midwestern dinners.

Outside, life pulses—
students debating, lovers laughing,
the echoes of revolutions
still hanging in the air,
and he, in his own small rebellion,
savors the rawness, the edge,
the delicate dance of culture,
the heartbeat of Paris
infusing his very being.

Here, in this moment,
the world narrows to a plate,
to a taste that lingers
like the soft brush of a hand,
and he knows he is changed—
an American, yes,
but also a son of this city,
if only for an evening,
savoring life, one bold bite at a time.

*Tourist promo?

Bread, Salt, and Wine

There’s an old Polish wedding tradition
The parents perform at the reception.
They greet the bride and the groom
With rye bread as they enter the room
The bread is sprinkled with salt.
And with wine they also exalt.
With bread, they hope their children
Will never hunger or be barren.
With salt, they remind the couple
That life may at times bring trouble.
With wine, they wish for them years
Full of good health and many cheers.
They then embrace the twosome
To affirm their familial welcome.