My husband grew up eating lox in New Jersey.

But now he eats saumon fumé.

The noshes he once used to nosh before dinner

He’s calling hors d’oeuvres variés.

And food is cuisine since he learned how to be a gourmet.

He now has a palate instead of a stomach

And must have his salad après,

His ris de veau firm, and his Port Salut runny,

All ordered, of course, en français.

So the waiter should know he is serving a full-fledged gourmet.

No meal is complete without something en croute, a-

Mandine, béchamel, en gelée.

And those wines he selects with the care that a surgeon

Transplanting a heart might display.

He keeps sniffing the corks since he learned how to be a gourmet.

The tans some folks get from a trip to St. Thomas

He gets from the cerises flambées.

After which he requires, instead of a seltzer,

A cognac or Grand Marnier.

With a toast to the chef from my husband the nouveau gourmet.

The words people use for a Chartres or a Mozart

He’s using to praise a soufflé.

He reads me aloud from James Beard and Craig Claiborne

The way others read from Corneille.

And he’s moved by a mousse since he learned how to be a gourmet.

But back in New Jersey, whenever we visit,

They don’t know from Pouilly-Fuissé.

They’re still serving milk in the glass from the jelly.

They still cook the brisket all day.

And a son who can’t finish three helpings is not a gourmet.