Callooh Callay
65 Rivington Street
London
EC2A 3AY
Callooh Callay
Excuse me please, my ear is full of milk—Oliver Hardy (Going Bye-Bye, 1934)
Wine comes in at the mouth, and love at the eye,
but any fule kno that milk comes in at the ear.
I hear that cocktails pour their thoughts
through the candlestick ‘phone at Callooh Callay
where patrons, wise and elegant, drink not
themselves under the table but clear through
the looking glass where the Jabberwock waits
with impeccable, unimpeachschnappsable taste.
If its brrr outside then there’s Byrrh within
knocking boots with a splash of Amer Picon,
Cointreau, anise, and a sly soupçon
of inside-out chat about this and that.
Fraternise with a passing Fratterwacken,
or pick from a platter of snicker-snacks
to whet the old whistle and I’ll come to you lad,
keep coming back for the Jubjub Bird
in its fresh minty nest of green olive eggs,
spirited anchovies pecking their way
through shell and through mirror to the secret chamber
beyond.
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