Tonight, we were eating at a nearby restaurant and I ordered the brasserie classic Steak Frites. What I got was a slab of gristle, underdone in the middle, charred on the ends. The “fries” were roast potatoes. While times like this make me wish I was still reviewing restaurants, I don’t necessarily agree with social media shaming. I won’t name this resto, at least until I write to voice my dissatisfaction (there was lots more wrong with the meal) and give the management a chance to respond.
In the meantime, it makes great subject matter for tonight’s NaPoWriMo entry. An acrostic poem is one where the first letters of each line spell out a particular word or phrase; in this case, the title of the poem.
Touch of salt and pepper
And cooked to requested doneness
Kitchen plates the bistro classic
French fried potatoes
Rinsed of starch, blanched
In fat, and drained
Then cooked golden brown for
Each Steak Frites ordered
Sadly, not what I was served tonight