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Growing up in Heidelberg, our family had a chef
When it came to cooking, my mom was, how do you say, tone deaf
From France, he was. To my mom, her handsome rockstar
Our Chef from Paris, Monsieur Georges Barbiaar

My dad, how do you say, he didn't like him
Always looking for a reason to break Georges like a papadum
And one day it was over. Monsieur did not completely understand
He'd been caught stealing wine. My dad now had the upper hand

What I soon learned, the case wasn't air tight
Father of mine had got a little too excited, midflight
There was wine missing from a bottle in the fridge
And only Georges had daily access for a sneaky little taste-age

Dad at his worst, filled up the bottle with urine
To catch him and poison him with evil moonshine
Having done this for a week he called Monsieur in for a lashing
To show our Chef who ultimately was the most dashing

Chef listened attentively, said nothing, and then smiled 
His reply was unexpected, unforgettable and awesomely wild
Papa he said, you're quite right, I am an alcoholic
But your accusation tonight is preposterscopic

It's true the wine in the fridge I use
It doesn't go into my body, to abuse
I learned to use it in school, as a cooking trick
To make each meal for you, taste magnifique

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