Dinner At Eight

	I died.
	And much to my surprise
	I went straight to heaven
	and became an angel.

	God was throwing a banquet to celebrate his zillionth anniversary 
	as God.

	He needed a new Chef with fresh ideas
	and since I was dead already
	they bent a few rules.
	
      Ok,
      alot of rules.

      Saint Peter, showed me to the kitchen
      which was beyond state of the art.
      The always eager and energetic staff had been trained by the best,
      well the most pious,
      of the best Chef's who had ever lived.
      Nothing was ever out of stock or out of season.

       I was in heaven!

       Dinner was at eight.

       I made a few adjustments to the menu
       organized my Sous Chefs
       and set the staff to work.

       The salads and desserts were plated and stacked into silver rolling
carts.
       Bouquetieres were stuffed with perfectly blanched vegetables.
       Duchess potatoes were piped into swirling peaks.
       Every detail of every garnish was meticulously seen to.

       We fired the entrees into the ovens.

       Only one last thing was left to be done
       one final touch.

       I had to prepare the sauce.
      The crowning glory which would meld all of the elements on the plate 
       into a meal
       fit for a God.

      And that's when the problem occurred.

      You see,
      this kitchen had everything
      doubled jacketed steam kettles
      fryers
      ovens
      grills and stockpots
      but I couldn't find a simple saucepan anywhere.

       The waiters began serving the salads.

       I was getting frustrated and nervous.
       Angel apprentices scurried about trying to please their Chef.
       They brought me food mills, aspic molds, strainers and graters and
gadgets               galore.
       None of which I needed.

       The second glass of wine was poured and the speaker began his speech.

       Escoffier poked his head in
       offering his 48 hour recipe for the perfect demi-glaze.
       And was quickly dismissed.

       I stood spinning in the middle of Heaven's kitchen.

       "Can't anybody bring me a goddamn three quart saucepan?"

        And voosh!

       In a flash of fire and brimstone
       Lucifer appeared.

       In one hand he held a stainless steel, heavy bottomed saucepan
       and a perfect piano wire whip.

      And in the other hand....
      a contract for my soul.

     The mint for the dessert garnish was wilting.
     The entrees were about to come out of the ovens.

     "What's it going to be Chefy Boy?
     You know the Devil has to eat too."

      Later that night
      I sat on a prep table an the darkened, immaculately cleaned kitchen
      eating my dinner and sipping a cognac twice my age.

      I wrapped my wings around me like a security blanket.
      In the end
      I'd thrown a large roasting pan on one of the flat-top grills
      and poured melted butter directly underneath it.
      An old fry-cooks's trick for conducting heat quickly to a large surface.

      I made the sauce in about two and a half minutes
      and of course 
      it played to rave reviews.

      I finished my chili cheese burger and soggy french fries
      hung my apron on a peg in Heaven's kitchen
      and went to find out where angels go to relax.

      You know it's really not that much different here than it is on earth.

      Shit's always gonna happen.

      But if you trust in yourself
      and ignore everything else.

      Dinner will always be served at eight.

Tommy Mendez' Questions:

1.) Does the poem flow well and is the meaning clear enough?

2.) Is it good for people who do not know much about cooking or resturants?