The third day

Coq au Vin suggests the 1980s.
Gastropubs were few and far between,
chicken in a basket was, if not luxury,
at least a respectable evening meal out.

But Coq au Vin in those days was
exotic – hard to believe, I know –
anticipated with relish, and usually
disappointing. We had not yet

grown used to foreign foods –
aloo gobi, souvlaki, even enchilladas
could have been animal, vegetable or mineral,
a dance, a disease or a death-watch beetle.

At least our schoolboy French could cope
with Coq au Vin, enjoying the saucy mix
of bacon, bird and button mushrooms,
of dish and double entendre.

Oeufs en cocottes suggest a later time,
when bistro was a more familiar word,
and ramekins were recognised as not
the little folk that Dorothy met in Oz.

A dish for those who've learned that food is more
than quantity; that shoving it all in a pan
is not the height of culinary skill.
Suddenly food became a branch of art,

and the adventure of a little light delight
in its own white munchkin dish
seemed worth the time or money,
and 'cocotte' was not a word we learnt at school.

But now each high street boasts a dozen different
cuisines – a poulet won't be just français,
but Provençal, or Bretonique, jaune grillé,
and Madame Bonne Femme must compete

with Yassa, Jerk, Tandoori, Fajita,
all laying out their wares for us to choose.
No longer caged by simple, stringy fare
we freely range over the chicken fields.