The Empty Tureen

 

by Brett Rutherford

     In memory of François Vatel (1631 – 24 April 1671)

 To die for the gods,
for one's planet,
for a nation, even,
is honorable

 and we invent Valhallas
where the worthy great
feast endlessly with
poets and composers
all around them.

 To will one’s own death
over dishonor
seems quaint,
and even ridiculous
when psychopaths
caught, just whirl and turn,
accusing their accusers.

 Vatel, the great chef
of the great Condé,
a better man
than his better,
fled the banquet,
hid in his room,
fell on his sword
over a spoiled dinner.

 No one had come by horse,
galloping to Chantilly
as ordered, no one came
with the one ingredient
intended to delight
Louis Quatorze —

 the moment had come
and gone, when one tureen
could be tipped, one course
converted from bland
to sublime. It tipped;
the waiter’s face turned white
when nothing came;

the tureen was empty,
as all down the line
of two thousand dukes,
barons, widows and mistresses,
each silver vessel
was tipped
and came up likewise
void as a cenotaph —

 and so, in the apartment
above, the great chef
impaled himself and died
for want of lobster sauce.