The menu is a goodwill ambassador for a restaurant and a mirror into its soul. It is his menu that defines the chef and his philosophy and gives the guest a strong message of what he is about to receive. A restaurant owner who takes the time to carefully consider each word that is written on the menu honors the food and respects those who have chosen to dine in his room.

The idea of changing the menu with the arrival of each new season didn't exactly begin with The Four Seasons restaurant in New York City, but in its early days, nowhere did the concept soar to such dizzying heights. At phenomenal expense, this temple to gastronomy changed not only the entire menu, but even the color of the ink with which it was written. Indeed, the entire restaurant was transformed -- from the china and glassware and the hue of the table cloths to the waiters uniforms and the floral arrangements. Full-grown trees arrived magically overnight. In early spring there were cascades of cherry blossoms. The metamorphosis served as a grand and glorious hurrah for a cycle that had renewed itself and that the promise of a new season had been fulfilled. Few would attempt similar dazzling drama, but then few would reap the rewards of such seeming extravagance with so welcome a shower of awed publicity (and reservations) that followed.

There is no denying that, whatever the season, writing a menu is an art. Apart from the obvious need to consider many elements including balancing the kitchen staff and equipment so neither the grill nor the ovens, or the stove top are overloaded at any one time ­ and the necessity to calculate the costs of labor and ingredients, there are plenty of other things to think about when it comes to composing the menu and parlaying it into a poem.

The ultimate goal is to fulfill the expectations of the "audience." The language of the menu sets the style of the room and the service.

For Easter, there must be ham. For Thanksgiving, turkey takes center stage. But how are these simple foods to be described? Is the ham to be a Baked Ham, a Peanut-fed Ham, and Arkansas Ham or a Farmer Brown's Ham from down the road a-piece? And is the turkey to be roast or roasted, a Tom turkey or a free-ranging kind of fella? Are there to be adjectives on the menu? Is every dish to be crispy, crunchy and delicious (yuk!)? Is its place of birth to be certified and is every component part of the dish to be proclaimed with a flourish, or will the menu be played straight and to the point ­ Roast Turkey with Mashed Potatoes? Comin' up!

Strictly speaking seasonal menus have become something of an anachronism. We can get asparagus and strawberries and, indeed, almost all ingredients (even kiwis) any time of the year, so we don't have to wait for a particular fruit or vegetable or fish to arrive in its appointed season. But this is not at all what seasonal menus are about. They are a matter of conscience; a caring about local crops and new harvests that provide the pleasures of remembrance and nostalgia for days past and weeks of good eats yet to come. They are a celebration of the abundance of the good earth.

Holiday menus require the presence of traditional foods so symbolically each generation can hold hands with the next, but seasonal menus provide the impetus for the cook to step up to the plate, put his best foot forward and hand us just what we were hoping to put in our mouth ­ an Easter bunny perhaps?