A shark comes to dinner

Well it’s not a shark as such, more the
nebbish simile that Woody Allen used
in ‘Annie Hall’, the one about how
Marshall McLuhan has to keep moving
forward to massage the message.
Anyway the dorsal fin is frantically
stirring the pot fretting that the lobsters,
squash and carrots haven’t been chopped
finely enough according to the proto hipster
aesthetic because, would you credit it, him
with the teeth is afraid to bleed. ‘Potluck Kinfolk
style’, she’d said, and he’d flapped a happy yes
not knowing what two out of those three words
meant, but hey what did it matter, he’d seen enough
Masterchefs to know you just had to do a journey,
a chocolate fondant and some Alpine microherbs,
then your life changed. Imagine the shock
when he discovered that an induction
hob could be as dangerous as pedestal,
and she wasn’t going to undo her apron
for any old Jawsy-Come-Lately brandishing
Elizabeth David’s come hither Mediterranean
words. ‘Calm’ she commanded, as she swept me
on to the table, and bade me wait upon her
homemade pastrami. I looked over and tried to drool
attractively. You’ve never seen a mammal wish
so fervently to tell Linnaeus to stuff himself
and become a slice of rye bread, some gherkins,
English mustard on the side.