chefs

Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is,—

I hate all your Frenchified fuss:

Your silly entrees and made dishes

Were never intended for us.

No footman in lace and in ruffles

Need dangle behind my arm-chair;

And never mind seeking for truffles,

Although they be ever so rare.

 

But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,

I prithee get ready at three:

Have it smoking, and tender and juicy,

And what better meat can there be?

And when it has feasted the master,

‘Twill amply suffice for the maid;

Meanwhile I will smoke my canister,

And tipple my ale in the shade.

 

--William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

Done