Dear Gong

On the advice of my GP, Dr. Trivedi, I recently had a fasting blood test in order to check my serum lipids, which came back as 'borderline high' on account of elevated triglycerides. A change in eating habits, with an excess of cholesterol-elevating pabulum proscribed, and a follow-up review in six months was recommended.

My wife Jean and I do enjoy our afternoon dining out and were initially concerned that this redacted nutritional regime would limit our exterior epicurean luncheonette selection. Fortuitously, my nephew Adrian alerted us to The Salad Centre on Christchurch Road, Boscombe, a highly reputable wholefood restaurant replete with 'signature dishes' such as Aubergine Parmesan and Butternut Squash and Gnocchi Bake, which prided itself, he added, on its insistence upon only using pure, fresh and natural ingredients and a devout non-wavering policy of colouring matter, artificial preservative, dye or other added chemicals recipe prohibition. He offered to show us where it was on the condition that we play his "Radio Gnome Trilogy" compact discs and drop him off at Hamburgerology on the way.

 

Their Tuna Nicoise, the ingredients of which include not the puzzling celestial ovum or 'Angel's Egg' intrinsic to your above-mentioned wireless and imperceptible vertically-challenged troll ternion, but instead those responsibly sourced and laid by hens free to roam, is to be highly recommended. It is available without Dijon Mustard and Extra Virgin Mediterranean Dressing if desired, although my preference is for the originally intended oily way. I sincerely doubt, Gong, that I would be quite as enamoured by your own 'Flute Salad' option. Although the presence of leaves in a healthy dietary meal is perfectly acceptable, nay, encouraged, the branch from which they have been plucked, fashioned into a perforated musical tube and also served is a clear choking hazard, to say nothing of the hollow cylindrical interior bacteria and concomitant gastronomic unpalatability if vigorously exhaled into by one or more of your 'Space Rock Troupe" in a 'live situation'. Ergo, to directly cite your 'avant garde incantation', you can kill me. If, on the other hand, the flute in question is in actuality penne pasta. then although apologies are in order, this should still have been made clear in the CD's 'accompanying booklet'.

I also cannot extol highly enough the Lentil Moussaka. Many items on the varied and adventurous menu feature such pulses, but they differ from yours in that they are for the most part high protein legumes, mung beans, vetches and bambara groundnuts, and not highly dangerous oscillations fluctuating through voltage-charged French cheese.

Generally speaking, when I have had a cup of tea I don't want another one, and therefore prefer a maitre d' to maintain a respectful distance from my table and only replenish my libations when politely summoned. I can assure you that the monotonous and repetitive caffeine and bladder overloading commandments of a 'front of house' d' would leave me no alternative but to seek an alternative bistro immediately.

All factors considered I cannot help but surmise that a 'Gong Cafe' may be, if you will pardon the pun, a bit of a 'non-starter' which, if to fall under the scrutiny of Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares, would transform flying teapots from "Space Rock Mythology" to actuality. I therefore wish you continued success in your chosen career path as planet Earth's premier Anglo-Franco jazz/rock fusionists.

Yours

Derek Philpott

P.S. Thomson Local or indeed any other directory digestion is also not exactly an appetite whettener.

 

 

Reply from Daevid Allen received 8/2/14

 

My Dear Ordinary Everyday Citizen(s) of the United Kinkdom,

As an overaged very important cottage industrial rockstar pensioner living in far off Orrrstaaalia, I am astonished to see that your good doctor has not recommended an overaged beverage as a marriage celebration twixt thine eartrumpet and the platter from which you dine.

My recommendation is an audacious drop from my local rooftop winery which it could be said permits instantaneous psycho tropical tannins from our well lit basement to engrave mandelbrot mandalas on the tip of the tongue. A form of trembling tongueilingus as described by Charles Mingus in a dream.

My gourmand friend and mentor Horatio Bitemark esq himself would probably in your case select a bottle of McVarnish's cruel Shiraz 1984 which boasts a hint of Scottish stoic crag and sticky sporran on the forepalate offset nicely with a bouquet of scottish tartan boardinghouse wallpaper stain that should

 

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