DINNER WITH JIM
I never expected to have a conversation
with Jim Harrison, but that’s where
an order of lamb vindaloo, four beers,
and a restless sleep led me.
We’re sitting in a French brasserie
patting our respective rotundities
and swilling a reasonable Armangnac
after a confit de canard and three
liters of vin ordinaire.
I’m half bagged, but it’s hard
to tell with Jim who is so worldwise
and vastly more experienced
at this sort of thing.
The confit was a tad greasy, I say.
Domestic duck will be that way,
he replies, But a wild mallard,
cooked fast and hot and rare –
Now that’s prime fare,
served with a decent
Cabernet Sauvignon.
He talks so deliberately, drunk or sober,
it seems to take ten minutes
for him to say Cabernet Sauvignon,
his deep smoker’s voice like stones
rattling in a pail.
And the wine was a bit sour, I add.
It’s vin du pays, says Jim,
Lower your expectations
and quit bitching.
You writing anything good
these days? I ask, dangerously
changing the subject.
Everything I write is good, he says,
fixing me with that disarming stare.
And you say you don’t re-write much,
I say, caution now drowned in the grape.
You don’t need to re-write, he growls,
if you get it right the first time.
Words to live by, I mutter.
No, he sighs, rolling his eye,
just the way I write.
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