Merry England

 

Papa, Pinky, Grandfather at Canford

In the autumn of that year we moved to England for an unknown period of time as my husband was part of a team opening the London office of his company.  It was crazy to move away as soon as we had grown comfy in our new apt, but how can you turn down an adventure?  It was particularly exciting because my husband has platoons of English cousins, every one of them as you would hope - eccentric, intelligent, or fun loving.

   We took the QEII to get there and the best part of the crossing was the new friend I made, an ex Naval officer who spent the entire week teaching me semaphore.  This was fun, but his great delight was to pop up out of nowhere and signal me an important message which I would inevitably get wrong. 

Semaphore?

He and his family loved Pinky and kept her entertained during the formal mealtimes.  I didn't learn until the end of the voyage that there was a special children's tea that kept them from being a nuisance to the adults.  If you take a baby to a restaurant you are treated like poison by the British - people have had their tables switched to avoid being next to us.  My experience is that a child is hungry and crabby in equal parts.  If you take care of the hunger rapidly you will avoid the crabby.  Speed is of the essence!  Somehow there is an inverse, unspoken rule in all restaurants that causes them to come to you last, to serve your table last and to roll their eyes when the inevitable meltdown takes place.  Before Pinky was very good at self entertainment my only trick was to stuff her little hands into the dinner rolls to make boxing mitts.  This wasn't exactly entertainment for her, but provided amusement for the table.

Our first year was tough.  No friends, no way to make friends.  Ordinarily one could strike up a conversation over strollers (push chairs to the Brits)  in NYC, but every day we would walk to St James Park and absolutely EVERY adult was a nanny.  There is no way you can cross the line between the employed and the employer.  Everyone in the UK is in a constant struggle to be one up and make someone else one down.  This is one of the reasons it is so hard for Americans to make friends there.  They are often on an expense account with their firm and this enables them to live at a higher standard than their equivalent Englishman, which means the Americans are always one up.  The English will accept your invitations but you will never be invited back to them.

   We used Pinky's birthday to give an adult party to pay back the many dinner invitations we'd had from the cousins.  This proceeded without incident and had a stately feeling, especially when the two year old birthday girl entered the room and, while looking at the festive scene fell into a coma that lifted when it was over.  Notably, she was given a doll which she named Ravioli.  Go figure.
   As the birthday party didn't live up to my risk taking standard, I will tell the tale of the First Important Dinner Party (others had been with visiting friends so that doesn't count, they forgive you).  My father-in-law was going to be in London for a short visit, so I steadied my nerves and invited his cousins and friends.  They were all titled, all over the age of 75, and one was profoundly deaf.  He turned out to be the most fun.  I decided to cook a beef filet, both to show off and to make it a no-brainer.  This would have been great except that the oven had temperature controls that made no sense: Gasmark 1, 2, 3, etc. and it was a convection oven, the likes of which I'd never used.  There was a long, long wait for that roasted meat, but it was filled by a never-ending cocktail hour which no one minded.  In order to assure a smooth party I had asked Pinky's wonderful nanny to stay until she went to bed and was really asleep.   Debbie brought her upstairs to the party to say goodnight looking dewy from her recent bath, dressed in her pretty nightie.  I introduced Pinky to cousins Diana & Alexander, then became mute.  How do you introduce a Viscount and Viscountess to your babysitter?  Not Di & Al, not Mr & Mrs Thingy, not Lord & Lady....thank goodness Debbie saved the day and introduced herself.  In case you're wondering, it is actually The Viscount & Viscountess Thingy.  I was unable to comprehend that saying the title wasn't being pretentious, but actually correct.   

Debbie with Pinky

We kept a little slide in the bay window of the sitting room and had not thought to clear it away for the party.  As soon as Pinky shook hands with the lofty arrivals, she ran to the slide and went down it again and again.  Very excited and sans underwear.  Everyone saw as this was not a big apartment.  In true English tradition they turned away from the action saying "lovely", the best answer to the most awkward moments.
   When in another country/culture it takes a while to learn the little things.  One of those, happily pointed out to me by all seated guests, was that you can't pass the port to the right (starboard) it must always be passed around the table to the portside.  They made me pay for that one mistake with intense insider laughter. We had taken hours to get a good vintage, strain it through a linen handkerchief into the beautiful carafe, and present it proudly. 
  Strangely the greatest part of dinner with this intimidating bunch was that you were assured of wit and more wit in the most skillful of hands, even if you were the butt of it.  As I mentioned earlier, deaf Uncle Ralph (pronounced Rafe) was an exceptional table mate (excluding a little pinch he gave me); he understood that his handicap made him a difficult partner, and spent the dinner time entertaining everyone with fantastical stories of his time as Chief Justice of the Bahamas.  As long as he was the talker, no one could ask him a question that he couldn't hear.   It is impossible to compete with these conversational Olympians and the most fun thing in the world is to relax, laugh and learn as they teach you at your own expense. 
  After all the hubbub, it was sad that my really delicious (if late) dinner went unremarked.  Because, I found out after bitter tears,  it is not polite to comment on the food.
  From the stately cocktail birthday party I learned that you must always break into the cheese, pate, dip in advance so no guest will have to be the first.  That would look hogletty, a no no in the Old Country.  Therefore, when you buy a vacherin (the best cheese in the world)

This Makes Me Very Hungry

make sure you lift off the cover rind, then put a spoon in it to either eat it without sharing, or smear it on crackers.  There have been many occasions when only half of it made it to the table, and it is preferably served as a dessert course.
   From the intimidating dinner party I learned that it's not what you serve but the spirit in which it is served that matters.   And, to be a good guest requires that you sing for your supper:  you owe it to your hosts to make their dinner party a good one.  AND don't forget that when the hostess turns to talk with her partner on the left, so does the whole table.  This really confused me for a while, but I ended up enjoying the way it could rescue you from a boor, or send you into a delightful flirtation, in the turn of a head.