Richard and I do not approach our
candlelight soirees expecting failure, but anticipating success.
Because we are
renowned hosts, with so much to offer not only Emmett, but Liz, the Vicar, Mrs
Nugent and indeed anyone who is worth knowing in high society in our
neighbourhood.
Boasting one of the best kitchens in Binley Wood.
With a hand finished, Louis quatourse style dinner service, the finest
sherry, the most comfortable of soft furnishings, and the support of neighbours – on both sides of our mock tudor home.
And another thing that’s important. My Vichysoisse soup. Because after all the division and
discord, the dish is finally coming
together.
The preparation was divisive at times. Richard was sent out with
explicit instructions to get an onion and came back with a French shallot.
Those divisions have taken time to heal. But the
reason my soirees have always been such a success is that the quality of one’s invitees,
the sophistication of one’s table-side conversation, and the finesse of my
sister Violet (the one with the swimming pool, the new Mercedes and room for a pony) has always meant
that things come together in the end. As for those who were not bidden, well
they have the responsibility to respect the legitimacy of one’s guest list. Mrs
Fortescue (who wasn’t invited) isn’t calling to reverse the result, but planning
to make a success of her place on the reserve benches.
The oven has pinged. And
the overwhelming majority of guests – however hungry they might be – want us to
get on with supper. So that is what we will do. Not merely providing an hors d’ouevre,
but a main course, amuse bouche, and a choice of desserts too. And let that be
the legacy of our soiree. The memory towards which we work. The destination at
which we arrive once the dishes have been done and our faces washed in our
deluxe avocado, en-suite bathroom.
