(For J B)
Keats was justifiably proud of
his salad dressing; its liquid caress could invigorate the most
flaccid of radacchios. Over the years he had become obsessive about
perfecting its recipe and went to extraordinary lengths to procure
the requisite mustard, vinegar and olive oil, some of which he would
salt away so as to never run out. If any of these ingredients were
not immediately at hand, as was often the case due to the shambolic
state of his kitchen, he became filled with despair.
Chapman witnessed one such
culinary crisis when he looked in from the dining room to see how his
friend's much anticipated vinaigrette was progressing. He saw
assembled amid the chaos a salt cellar and pepper pot, a jar of
moutade de Dijon and
bottle of vinaigre balsamique...
but where was the oil so crucial to the mix?
Keats was
searching high and low all the while bemoaning his lack of
organisational skills and resultant failure to locate the missing
component. Finally, having ransacked in vain every cupboard and
shelf, he collapsed into a chair and wailed, “I can not go on like
this!”
“Sounds like you've lost the
huile d'olive”, suggested Chapman, unhelpfully.
