The anthro prof, Jim Frazer, called it 'eating of the god', a strange appreciation, you'd think, for all that comes one's way
as when the mayor of a town would bake a man of dough -- an extra-large -- at harvest time
and break bits off for the farming folk to dip in the new wine decanted from old bottles
But now everyone knows each feeding place in France lays claim to good bread, and even the émigrés in the States serve hot loaf.
In fact, she and I know this place that's authentic here like a private home with Alsatian dog warming by the hearth, where
even though you call ahead you wait, full with a hungry sort in the anteroom and, poured around, complimentary Bordeaux blanc.
Once (if I may speak frank) by the power of their pork terrine we made love on a tiger rug out of Indochine.
I'd give it four stars on nothing more than the sweetbreads and the fact that our child was born
rollicking to the beat of the human heart as that beat goes on.