In our first year there we were invited to dinner at least three times a week. Only once were we served beef, EVERY OTHER dinner was lamb and three vegetables. Nope, there was a chicken meal served by Great Aunt Judith, its sauce base marmite, hiding the very old and smelly bird, no water to be found, only hard cider (oh my head). In virtually all the dinners the lamb was cooked well done, unseasoned except for salt and pepper, and accompanied by carrots, potatoes and peas. All were boiled. All were easy to eat without chewing, except for the lamb and you know what that means. We had two adventures because of this culinary tradition.
In the first, we were invited to the house of Very Chic London Financiers. It was a dream; beautiful decor (Nicky Haslam), beautiful people, and finally a really beautiful pink lamb roast seasoned with rosemary and garlic. I thought my suffering was finally rewarded, the meal was so delicious. But then I started to feel like I was catching something. You know the feeling, foggy head, yawning, a sense of looking out of a car at the action around you. For the life of me I couldn't hold up my conversational end - drank gallons of very good wine (rare at British dinner parties) and still I was a dud. We finally excused ourselves to go home early because of my "illness", and as we walked to the car I felt better and better. By the time I got in the car I was raring to go, ready to find another party and blaze! As we got farther and farther away my head cleared and I suddenly understood: it wasn't carbon monoxide poisoning, it was such intense boredom that I had failed to recognize it. I had been tricked by the remarkable dinner and the dazzling appearances of my fellow diners. When I reviewed the evening I realized that from the beginning of the cocktail hour through the last sip of liqueur the conversation had never left the subject of ways to travel to and from Chamonix. It is hard to believe that one could make that conversation last for three hours, but where the English excel in wit and finesse, there is a dark side which enables them to pick apart any trivial subject until you have killed yourself to get away. I once stood in a queue behind two perfectly ordinary women who made 5 minutes stretch into eternity by their analysis of The Little Lemon Book and one of them had yet to read it.
My husband's Aunt Revel gives huge and lively dinner parties at the drop of a hat. It was at one of these that we had our second memorable lamb dinner. This one started with a lecture from me to my husband about being a good dinner partner and talking about ANYTHING in a lighthearted way. At the time he had a tendency to go silent when his partner didn't live up to his expectations. As the hostess relies on you to help her with the drearier guests it is your duty to bring them up to your level (remember deaf Uncle Ralph). So as we sat down to dinner, twenty-four strong, I was extremely pleased to be between two adorable lawyers who competed for my attention. Every so often Dick would grimace from a distance and roll his eyes towards something to his left. I had no idea what he wanted me to notice so I ignored him until he pulled me aside as we left the table. "Did you see it???" he asked in an hysterical tenor, "I did what you said, and I thought I was doing OK until she asked me where I wanted to go in Europe. I answered that I had never been to Finland, but was unlikely to go as my wife was uninterested. The moment I said that she climbed on her soapbox and harangued me about Being Free to Be Me until the dessert course ended. And she ate the entire meal with her fingers; the lamb the potatoes carrots peas, the pudding, the salad. The only thing that saved me was the unbelievable promptness with which my glass was refilled." (A leitmotif, servers who don't drink are the most generous pourers and are always at the parties I go to)
I felt sorry for him, but he had earned a little bit of dinner hell by his previous performances. And the great thing about a party such as this is that it gives you the amusing monologue for the next one. So he thanks you, girl from the Isle of Man.
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| An English Cousin and His Buddy, Mossy |
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