Asian lecipe

I found a Chinese restaurant, while trekking in Tibet,

the chef was Japanese, and very nice,

he cooked me Thai risotto with Korean vinaigrette,

it tasted like an Asian Paradise.

I begged him for the recipe, he looked at me in vain,

and waved an arm to somewhere East and South,

his semaphore of gestures told the story straight and plain,

this dish was handed down from mouth to mouth.

Although he spoke atrociously, I memorized each word,

then jumped upon a plane and headed west,

the owner of a recipe no western man had heard,

I couldn’t wait to put it to the test.

My kitchen was a work of art, a European brand,

a Swedish stove the best that one could buy,

four hotplates flown from Finland in this cooking wonderland,

with microwave and fryer from Shanghai.

I conjured up the words that he had told me with a grin,

then looked through all my cupboards with no joy,

apparently, I didn’t have the right stuff to begin,

and couldn’t find some Paks or any Choy.

I didn’t have the lice that was the basis of the dish,

no rhyme juice could be found, or cully splout,

I found a can of tuna – but I had no Jerry Fish,

and shitty yucky mushrooms? I was out.

I had no bloody brackbeen sauce, no reeks or rotus reaf,

no remmon glass in bottles, bags or canned,

my kaffir rhyme was out of stock, the toe few brought me grief,

and kneecap maniss wouldn’t raise its hand.

I had no stinking cheery sauce, was out of cully crove,

I didn’t see a laddish anywhere,

my brand-new wok stayed empty, and I didn’t need the stove,

for special Asian food, my cupboard bare.

A two-hour search had yielded me some Chinese soya sauce,

some tuna and one measly coconut,

but all this food talk made me famished – I could eat a horse,

I grabbed the phone and rang the Pizza Hut!