Everyone's A Critic

Last night I went to a dinner party at my friend Charlotte’s lovely home in Brook Green, my former neighborhood.  Being invited to a meal there is always a memorable event, both because of the food and the company.  Charlotte’s a gifted cook and also has a fantastic knack for bringing together such intriguingly different personalities; that by the end of the evening you’ll wonder where the time went.  Last night was no exception.

There were eight of us.  To my right, The Musician—impeccably dressed and with that typical English boyishness that once made Hugh Grant so loveable.  To my left: The Wine Writer.  Californian transplant, blushes easily.  Across from me: Charlotte, and next to her, The Barrister.  “I’ve promised myself I won’t touch the wine tonight,” he announces, upon seeing the row of stemware before him.  Next to him: The Pop-Culture Maven.  Also American.  Most downloaded and banned episode of South Park?  She’s got it.  And can quote from it, too.  At the other end of the table: The Fashionista, recently on a job with Victoria Beckham  (size 2 jeans).  Coming full circle, we have Charlotte’s mother, one of the most well-travelled and insightful women I’ve ever met.

The conversation was electric and covered the most savoury of dinner-party topics—politics (Condoleezza’s 4am workout routine), sex (the guys in Brokeback Mountain are shepherds, not cowboys, dammit!  Easily the evening’s most brilliant observation); and religion (Isaac Hayes and his now defunct sweaty balls). 

After numerous courses, my tart au citron arrived at the table.  A crust of pâte brisée (made my rubbing butter and flour between the fingers until it feels like sand) cradles a tangy lemon curd and is crowned with snow-white meringue piped like stars, edges burnished with a blowtorch. 

Spoons dip through for the first bite.  The Musician starts to plot ways to marry me off.  The Fashionista swoons approvingly.  “It’s…correct,” proclaims The Wine Writer.  Over the tops of half-filled glasses, I catch The Barrister eyeing his spoonful inquisitively.  He swallows, and in his baritone declares:  “This says don’t eat me, shag me.” 

Someone rushes past the candlesticks and disappears into the study.

Comments

[Vivian]

You go girl! Nothing like a girl with a blow torch who can merengue oh ...that can make a meringue.
Good luck with the course I'm so proud of you.
I look forward to cooking along with you. Miss ya!

[Jess]

Love your comment, Viv! I might use it in the future! Miss you lots, too.