Sydney, 1985
“You aren’t a real foodie” my friend and part time food critic Leo said in his heavy Australian accent while he leaned against the table. “What do you mean?” I asked, washing the green chard with yellow stalks in the kitchen sink overlooking Sydney Harbor. He went on to explain that people who are really interested in food will eat anything, and try whatever is put in front of them. I had been known to cook Lebanese wedding feasts for a dinner party, or a five-course French meal that took three days to prepare, but given a choice I would eat a sliced summer tomato warm from the garden and a bit of gooey cheese, in preference to a fancy meal. I was not a foodie.
We moved into the dining room to set the table for the dinner I was giving that evening, stopping briefly to watch the sailing boats race around a buoy which was just visible at the edge of the window. The house was built in a semi-circle facing out to the magnificence of Sydney Harbor, and was made mostly of glass. I had been very lucky to rent it when the girls and I moved from Los Angeles for a new job running a film production company. Tonight I was giving a dinner for a dignitary visiting from New Zealand who was putting lots of capital into making films. Leo was supposed to be helping me.
Pauline, my housekeeper and second mother to my two teenage daughters, walked into the dining room with an armful of beautifully ironed, white linen napkins still warm from the ironing board. “Shall I polish the crystal glasses?” she asked with that look that said I was a bit too casual about having important people for dinner. “Lovely, thank you”, I smiled at her.
I had made twenty small terrines of salmon mousse for a first course and they were chilling in the fridge. I had decided on game hens for the main course which would avoid cutting or serving anything complicated. The dining room table was an enormous round affair that our handyman had made for me. It was always full of people for dinner and must have seated half the town at one time or another. Tonight was to be a more formal affair and Pauline and I wanted to get it right.
At the beginning of dinner our tall, rather imposing guest of honor rose to his elegant feet and asked the rest of us to rise to toast the Queen. We all complied dutifully. We sat down rather amused by this old fashioned habit which was still alive and well in his world. Later, when my guests were looking very satisfied as they dug into the last of the chocolate soufflés and ripe raspberries on the side, he rose again and asked us to raise our glasses, this time to thank me for the evening. This toast was a lot noisier than the first, perhaps because of the vast number of empty wine and champagne bottles which now decorated the table. He asked the gentlemen to remain standing and follow his instructions. He told them that I had suggested it was time to take off their dinner jackets, and they followed cheerfully, many of them grateful to get out of their formal clothes. He continued, removing his bow tie, cufflinks, and opened his shirt. Then his hands moved to the waistband of his trousers.
It was at this point two of the men at the table, now with open shirts flapping under their suspenders, got up, finally realizing that our honored guest had drunk too much champagne and was fully determined to be naked at the table. They gently marched him outside onto the terrace while a dozen half-dressed men sat and laughed until they cried.
