Tripe

Ode to Tripe

In bustling market stalls, where aromas blend,
A humble dish awaits the daring friend:
Tripe, the cow’s soft lining, blanched and white,
Simmered slow with onions, herbs, and bite.

It sits beneath a veil of peppered broth,
A gelatinous cloud, both smooth and loath,
Yet Londoners, with stern resolve, proclaim
Its savoury depth has earned its name.

With vinegar sharp and a sprinkle of malt,
It warms the belly when the frost has halted.
In pie or stew, or fried till crisp and brown,
Tripe proves that off‑al can wear a crown.

So raise a spoon, let sceptics flee,
For in this off‑cut lies true gastronomy.
British kitchens cherish, without pretence,
The humble triumph of tripe’s intense.