Babette’s black chickens roamed the fields of an idyllic English countryside that probably didn’t exist. They pecked the dust, free from the wild glare of starving brexiteers at the £5 eat as much as you can Sunday carvery. May’s hungry foxes had long since moved to the city to find fame and fortune on Prodigy billboards.
Babette’s black chickens lived the dream of an organic life. It’s what everyone wanted! Eating shit, laying eggs and squinting in the glorious sunlight.
But, like all dreams, it had to end.
Babette’s black chickens ended the dream on a plate in a pub in Nunhead. All crispy skin and succulent white flesh, glazed in a glistening Armagnac gravy! Their new bedfellows, an orgy of buttery asparagus and green beans. In solidarity, an array of golden crisp roasted potatoes and a perfectly formed Yorkshire pudding sat waiting their fate.
Babette came from Paris and the love of gastronomy twinkled in her eyes. She spoke lines of poetry about the non alcoholic rhubarb champagne that was becoming non-non-alcoholic! It tasted as sweet as the smile on her face.
Its golden waves carried the black chicken and asparagus deep into the ravines of my empty stomach. It filled me and cured me of my longing. In a frenzied attack of the senses, my nostrils filled with the glory of carnivorous delight. My mouth barely able to contain the delicious young skin and all its sauces. My mind satiated like after a good fuck. Babettes black chicken filled me with the glory of love!
Babette. 57 Nunhead Lane, London, SE15 3TR