Limericks, because why the hell not
Cassandra Landry | 6.15.15 | Issue #18
It's science that tells us we like certain things,
Soft chairs, dim lights, and eating like kings.
But if the manners be rusty,
And the banquettes be crusty,
We can’t see the night for all that it brings.
There was this nice restaurant downtown,
Where diners dressed up in top hat and gown,
Champagne was kept pouring,
Drunk gazes adoring,
Béarnaises in which their sorrows would drown.
The waiters wear wide smiles plastered on faces,
Until it's PBR time, crouched down on wine cases.
The tickets get stabbed,
And fingers get jabbed,
In the dining room? Everything's aces.
Flavor's the one sense we notice the most,
Whether an old-school flambé or a great piece of toast,
Too salty, we're pissed,
Not enough and it's missed,
It's the tongue that's hard to please for any good host.
The woman on table five laughs like a kazoo,
Some guy's mouth is open like it never learned to chew.
Music makes you forget,
Sounds are less of a threat,
And you carry on like you haven't a clue.
Haptics is a fancy word that just means to touch,
It's why you see people stroking plates and such.
The slope of a chair,
The feel on skin bare,
Leather, velvet and linen are never too much.
Fuck, that smells good! is a common outcry,
When fresh bread or hot bacon goes sailing by.
We lead with the nose,
And trust where it goes,
We just know we like it and never ask why.