A Fabulous Food Fight
- by Mark van Vuuren
Every now and then, like once in a lifetime, one gets to play the role of the Beautiful People. It was our little circle which now had this privilege to attend the opening of a new restaurant, situated on the main road, in the middle of where-it’s-happening, and we were to witness its birth.
There was talk of other cliques who were invited. On investigation, never a sweeter silence was uttered when certain parties admitted to not being invited but wanted to know more. This was not a time for charity but a time for the application of the first principle of socialising: one-upmanship.
The following days saw much planning, magazine paging and buying. We had a purpose in life, and we had credit cards too.
Finally, many, many, hours of angst later, it came to be Opening Night. We arrived in a taxi (in our circle that’s a sign of excessive class) behind a line of other taxis. The entrance was a well-lit affair and we were welcomed by the uniformed brigade comprising the maitre d’, the head chef, the waiters and waitresses, the barman and lastly that most important servant of Mammon, the owner.
In reply to their welcome, in our new clothes and manicured looks, we dutifully assumed the persona of our intent and fell to a better class of living with the ease of trained lapdogs and exuded the spirit of our roles as though we spent our lives at this level.
Beyond the grateful acknowledgements of the servants we entered an ante-room where drinks were served in thimbles on stalks; for those in the know, this was the crux of the evening – to meet the rest who were invited to this privilege, to let it be known that I was a Beautiful Person and in my acknowledgement of you I would confer this status on you, and accordingly be a worthy guest at your next dinner party.
The guests ushered in, took hold of a stalked thimble with a drop of port-ish, and spread into the room to form a square circle and wait for the start of the Dance of Social Death.
The procedure: look at the attire: good taste meant acknowledgement, as did a dazzling smile. The first utterance would place them above or below the salt for years, or no invitations at all. Eyes were sharp, to the untrained guest this might appear as a gesture of kindness and willingness but to those who knew it was diplomatic aggression.
The dance began:
“Hello darling, you look wonderful!”
“Thank you. I just love ….”
“How do you do..”
“Fine thank you, and you?…” Oh dear, he fell into the trap. Only an Englishman would ask a rhetorical question and expect a rhetorical reply.
“Hello Jim and Mrs Jim” followed by laughter. Even if her dress was one centimetre lower exposing her breasts entirely, and even if her nipples were covered in solid gold, for the love of God, don’t look! for this is another social trap.
After a few, extremely demanding minutes, a gong sounded and the battle was over. The winners and the losers faced the entrance and reflected silently on what just happened. The parries, ripostes and counter-ripostes were silently counted and the final tally altered materially by one small fact: the weapons of the social world, like breeding, social standing and influence all serve the same master, money.
With a hundred pensive eyes in focus the doors to the dining room opened and a fantasy of lights, colour and materials awaited us. This was an over-the-top, unforgettable display of Form over Function, but it was what the magazines wanted and more-so, what we relished.
Once seated, well aware that these were virgin chairs, the menus were presented and the general murmur calmed down a scale as the room marvelled at the selection. Soon the ripostes started again. This time the social challenge was less demanding, and with little consequence.
“I’ll have the snake and pygmy pie”
“I’ll have the medallion of … whatever it is, I’ve always wanted a medallion!”
“And your wine list? I drink, therefore I am!”
And then the meal.
“Born up a tree!”
The typical patron was of the mindset that one goes to a restaurant to meet people and to talk; to admit that your primary purpose is to eat at a restaurant is decidedly MC (Middle Class). And having said this the meal was a consistent battery of puns, parries and ripostes, with the more-than-occasional reference to matters more sordid. At one point it was evident a party was developing beneath the table, but it was more fun to imagine the worst than to confirm it not to be so.
There’s always the idiot with the loud mouth who sets the tone and tempo for a party, and this one had three. Somehow, with their mutual supporters and the effect of alcohol and that remarkable quality of human nature than revolts at the slightest hint of Best Behaviour, the worst came to pass.
I remember a comment, and a reply; an exclamation, and general laughter.
I remember arabesque strawberry, succulent litchi and a portion of tenderised steak blended against a backdrop of sophisticated lighting and silken curtains flying through the air from table one. Allied in principle, table two and three fired back with vintage wine (both red and white) and chilled lager shot in streaks at table one and neutral table four.
Volleys of fresh white bread-rolls bounced off their intended victims and were soon replaced with buttered bread-rolls: these don’t bounce so much but do leave scar tissue. A side-plate of tangy bouillabaisse sauce with a hint of thyme crash-landed on the centre of table two and sprayed pockmarks on the enemy.
The fight changed from between tables to between members, which changed from throwing to a game of smearing and pouring. The lady opposite poured her wine onto her partner’s crotch while the man on her right gallantly fought to retrieve a bread-roll which went down her front.
At table five the women turned on the men; in their surprise the men forgot to grin and bear the abuse and fought back bravely. She hit him consistently with a lamb-chop while he shook the salt and pepper cellars over her coiffed creation. Verbal abuse was generously dished out, “That’s for being a stubborn man!” to which he replied, “And that’s for kissing my sister!” It was a man, of course, who had a napkin over his head while flicking blocks of butter with the wrong fork across the table.
I remember a phantasmagoria of colour, balanced by quick actions, sudden movements, whoops, shrieks and laughter. But then the fight stopped. No more ammo. A long silence followed in which nobody moved. It was interesting to note just how much parsley there was, finely cut, stuck to hair and skin, material and cloth, discoloured by the soup and carbonara sauce. The lady opposite me had a tiara of tiramisu ensconced with baguettes of caviar, and she looked better for it. The man at table one had a soup bowl on his head; he was their leader. Two people from table four were under the table, also silent. An attractive woman in a low-cut dress had an array of cherries and cream on her neck and shoulder, threatening to fall down her chest, and she relished in the envy she stirred in her sisters. Most interestingly, no-one seemed to show remorse.
The general consensus of eyes focussed on the owner standing matronly at the entrance to the dining room.
He was happy for the atmosphere but decidedly in shock over the revelry. He wondered how next to act: How does one please one’s guests yet tell them what utters shits they’ve been?
He lined up the maitre d’, the chef, the waiters and waitresses, the barman and himself and, astoundingly, they began to recite a poem.
As you enter my abode
I hope you’re in a spending mode.
May our décor
impress you such
You’ll eat and drink and sing too much.
With much good
reason we’ll leave you full
Our contract endeth with your stool.
The guests replied with silence. A stunned silence.
And then shrieks of laughter, followed by hearty applause. Naughty boys and girls answer unto themselves. The waiters brought out bottles of plonk and we toasted the generosity of the patron while accepting his poetic castigation. We’d all be back; he’d make his money, and in one evening got right what some places never get right.
And the restaurant? I’m not telling, yet.
