Words by Kate Elizabeth Hawley
Dear Head Chef,
You are a fucking genius. You have changed my life with your Gnocchi Ragù. Let me break it down for you.
Red wine. Yes.
But mate, I gotta tell you. I have to give your dish a 9/10. This is just a personal preference sort of thing but if it also had mushrooms in it, then it would be a 10/10. But all mushrooms aside, a real cracker of a dish! You should be super proud of this dish, go on, give yourself a pat on the back. While we’re at it, give all the kitchen staff a high-five. You’re all awesome!
Anyway, back to the Ragu. I would literally bathe myself in that stuff. Amazing. I would use that ravenous ragu sauce as a face moisturiser. Shampoo my hair with it, clean my teeth with it. I’d even paint my nails with that shit.
If I didn’t have a boyfriend, I would make that Gnocchi Ragu my lawful wedded husband. But it’s okay, he’s cool with it. He ain’t even mad. I bet if I convinced him enough, we could form a threesome.
Me. Dan. Ragu.
You say nightmare? I say sweet dream. Anyway, enough with the sexual innuendos.
Let me tell you a story, well actually, two stories. The first time I ate your Ragu. I went to dinner with said boyfriend, but we weren’t actually together at the time. Maybe he knew of the Gnocchi’s powers and that’s why he took me there. That, or because he got a 25% discount. What a scrub.
Anyway, I ordered the Gnocchi Ragu. It arrived at the table. Little did I know that I was only moments away of having a major life event. I pick up my spoon and stirred the Ragu to mix the melting cheese.
“Looks delicious.” I eagerly exclaim. I take a large scoop and the moment I put it in my mouth, instant bliss. It was an orgasm in my mouth. I felt feelings that I had never felt before. Head Chef and Kitchen Staff, I thank you for that.
Second Story. The second time I went to the Craftsman, I came with my best friend. We had just sucked a phat J. Our bodies were ready for exceptionally large proportions of food. I’ll give you one chance to guess what I ordered. That’s right. Gnocchi motherfucking Ragu. Bitch, I wasn’t messing around.
I also ordered a side of chips with two aolis. Not one. Two. That’s right, you heard me true. I don’t joke about aloe, you hear me son?
Eating that Gnocchi Ragu while having the munchies is one of the mot amazing moments I’ve ever experienced. The soft but goopy chewiness of the succulent starchy little potato nuggets mixed with the Jesus blood sauce. I was reborn. I could not finish my impressive meal, so I asked for a takeaway doggy bag so I could later on finish my day smoking some more billies and enjoying my leftover Gnocchi Ragu.
Only to have my heart shattered into a million pieces.
“We don’t do takeaway, sorry.”
Why have you forsaken me? I knew it was too good to be true. The little Kate inside of me softly sobs while I tell myself, “Be strong.”
But, it’s okay. I forgive you. I’ve had the taste of the Gnocchi Ragu, which makes my tastebuds cry “Sweet Baby Jesus” as they shimmy their hands and praise the Lord. But to summarise this letter, the Gnocchi Ragu is the bee’s knees. Honour on you and your family.
Ya’ll keep on knocking that Ragu out of the park, you hear me? Home run, baby. Solid effort. Don’t stop being you.
The girl whose Gnocchi, Gnocch, Gnocchi on heaven’s door everytime she eats your Gnocchi Ragu.