Beijing Boyce

As some readers know, my cohorts for pub and restaurant research, wine tastings, and general merrymaking often prefer to be known by pseudonyms. Thus, mention is made of Eddie O or The Cellar Rat or Agent Red Wolf, in order to protect their identities as high government officials and whatnot. One such pseudonym is Special K, a dangerous man to associate with if you are remotely interested in losing, or even maintaining your, weight.

Consider the past week - meeting this man meant gorging at Kro’s Nest, wolfing down deep-fried Camembert and assorted meats at Schindler’s, guzzling home-made pizzas at a house party, tackling enough food for six at Indian Kitchen, and draining pints of beer at Paddy O’Shea’s and Alfa, among other endeavors. In honor of Special K, who might better be named Special KG, and because I just finished the mammoth Outlaws of the Marsh, I quickly wrote some verse (with special references to his homeland of Canada):

Hail, the gourmand, Special K
From the land of hockey puck
Hear his hearty, “Let’s eat, eh?”
This foe of fowl and geoduck*

Wand-cum-menu in his hand
Heaven shakes on his command
Chicken bones in mountains rise
Up spring hills of curly fries
Stout in ebon rivers flows
Armies march of escargot
Hark! A noble waiter cries -
Here, my lord, Eskimo pies!

Hail, the gourmand, Special K
Gravy stain upon his toque
Hear his hearty, “I’m full, eh?”
So full, in fact, he wants to puke.

* Pronounced “gooey duck”